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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963995">I'm Not Lonely</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenrosemollcroft/pseuds/tenrosemollcroft'>tenrosemollcroft</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Character Development, F/M, Fluff, Mycroft is Sweet, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:35:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,501</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23963995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenrosemollcroft/pseuds/tenrosemollcroft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Smallwood discovers Cecily, an assassin who just wants a normal life, and changes her life by introducing her to Mycroft Holmes</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anthea &amp; Mycroft Holmes, Anthea/Mycroft Holmes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Chapter 1 is set in 1997</p><p>Anthea is 19<br/>Elizabeth is 46<br/>Mycroft is 31</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cecily gripped the gun a bit harder; no matter what the number was, this would never get any easier. She thanked any god out there – who was there to pray to with Omer Bates in the world – that she had a steady hand before closing one eye and aiming carefully.<br/>
“So, Cecily Blaine,” a calm voice interrupted from behind her. Cecily squeaked, spinning around, the gun still raised. A short woman, stood straight. Her blonde hair was in loose curls around her shoulders and she wore an elegant black blazer over a tight-fitting white dress. She was apparently intrigued by her small notebook, but she quickly pocketed it and looked at Cecily’s gun with distaste.<br/>
“I really would advise against shooting me. I mean no harm.”<br/>
“Who the hell are you?” hissed Cecily, slowly lowering the gun.<br/>
“My name is Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I’ve been following you for a while.”<br/>
Cecily gulped and backed up a few steps.<br/>
“Oh, no, no, it’s nothing bad!” Elizabeth assured, looking alarmed. “We noticed your family’s disappearance correlated with the rise of Omer Bates.”<br/>
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”<br/>
“Omer Bates is a terrorist. Although he apparently disappeared 10 years ago, he’s recently risen and he has a pattern of kidnapping young women and using them as his assassins, threatening their family for blackmail. But you know that already, don’t you?”<br/>
“You’re working for him,” she accused, voice shaking.<br/>
“No,” Elizabeth said calmly. “But I can help,”<br/>
“How?” she whispered.<br/>
“I’ll explain when we’re somewhat safer. Come along.” Elizabeth strode off quickly and Cecily scurried after. She was ushered into a limo and Elizabeth glanced around once more before following.</p><p>“Now, Cecily. I occupy a position in the British government and I currently have a new recruit. He needs an assistant.”<br/>
“I don’t understand,” Cecily said, casually resting her hand against the arm rest, ready to throw the door open.<br/>
“Albert, lock the doors,” ordered Elizabeth to the driver with a small smirk. “Think about it, Cecily. You can be his assistant,”<br/>
She laughed, a cold harsh sound. “Me? Work for the government, you must be kidding!”<br/>
“I do not kid, Miss Blaine. You have a very particular skill set. You and your family will be under complete protection, put in place by the government, you have my word.”<br/>
“I-I’d be safe? My mum? My dad? My sister?”<br/>
“Even the dog,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “A stable job, a luxury home, a kind boss, a good salary.”<br/>
“Omer’s clever. He won’t just let me go.”<br/>
“That’s the catch. We would have to… redesign you. And you won’t be able to see your family, I’m afraid.”<br/>
“Never again?”<br/>
“No.”<br/>
“But they’ll be safe?”<br/>
“Yes. I understand you will need time to consider so - ”<br/>
“I’ll do it.”</p><p>Lady Smallwood took Cecily back to her house and silently beckoned her to a bedroom where a number of young women were waiting.<br/>
And, overnight, the ginger hair was darkened to a glossy brown. The uncut, unkempt hair that reaches her hips and usually in a straggly ponytail was cut to her collarbones and deftly curled. Contacts changed her bright blue eyes to a deep, chocolate brown. Her nails cut and painted, her eyebrows plucked, her face powdered. Her filthy hoodie and tracksuit were thrown out and she was shoved into the shower room with a modest black dress and heels. When she emerged again, the women were gone but Lady Smallwood was leaning against a wardrobe, waiting.<br/>
“You look lovely, Cecily.”<br/>
She smiled shyly and fiddled with the sleeve of her dress.<br/>
“My ladies left you these.” Lady Smallwood continued, gesturing to a bag on the dressing table. Cecily peered inside curiously: more brown contact lenses, neatly folded dresses and blazers, shoes, makeup… and a passport. Cecily opened it and wrinkled her nose. Somehow, a photo of her “new self” was already in there and everything else was new too.<br/>
“I did say you would need a new identity.” Lady Smallwood had clearly noticed. “Anthea Johnson, born on the 27th July 1980 to Delphine and Thomas Johnson; half British, half French.”<br/>
“Anthea,” Cecily rolled her new name around her mouth and nodded. “I’ve never been to France. I know anything about it, or the language,”<br/>
“You’d better learn,” Lady Smallwood laughed lightly, throwing her a pair of keys.<br/>
“What are these?”<br/>
“Your new house. It’s just two blocks away. You’ll find the place stocked, hopefully to your tastes.”<br/>
Anthea bit her lip nervously, forgetting the lipstick. Lady Smallwood clearly noticed and came over to envelop her in a hug. “This is your new life now, Cec – Anthea. And I’m afraid it starts now; my husband would have questions was he to find someone here at this time.”<br/>
She nodded, took a deep breath and turned to go. Then one more thought struck her, and she turned again. “My new boss, what’s his name?”<br/>
“Sorry? Oh! His name is Mycroft Holmes.”</p><p>A week later, Anthea curled up on the window seat of her office. It was her lunch break and she could do what she wanted, but, after all, London was scary after being kept in captivity for 3 years, only being allowed out when Omer wanted someone dead. A family of four walked under the window, oblivious to Anthea. Two young girls and their parents, she noticed, her eyes stinging. The tears only fell when the father swung the smaller of the two girls onto his back, just like her dad had used to do. She let her head fall into her hands – she was no good at this. She didn’t know how to keep her hair looking nice, so it went frizzy and the curls fell out. She could barely walk in her heels, so she had resorted to plain black flats. Her nails were already chipped, her eyeliner wonky. With a sob, she scrubbed furiously at her eyes, not caring when the brown contacts fluttered to the floor to collect dust. She couldn’t sit behind a desk all day, taking calls and reviewing diaries and making coffee. She was an assassin, a monster, a slave to Omer Bates. Through her hysteria, she didn’t hear the quiet knock to her door.<br/>
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently. She was so shocked that, even though the tears continued to fall, her voice was choked.<br/>
“I don’t need pity,” she snapped, bringing her knees closer to her chest and turning away.<br/>
“Of course you don’t,” he said, sympathetically but sincerely. He slowly reached out a hand to comfort her, but she flinched and suddenly screamed.<br/>
“Get away from me! Get away!”<br/>
He nodded, backing away as quickly as he could to the other side of her desk, but she carried on.<br/>
“Fuck off! I don’t need you, I don’t need anything, I don’t need - ” her mind suddenly caught up with her voice and she clapped a hand to her mouth, retreating in horror.<br/>
He paused and simply stared.<br/>
This was it. He had been tolerant of her up to now, even nice, but now he was going to go to Lady Smallwood and get her fired and Omer would find her again and and and – and what was he handing her?<br/>
“This is my personal telephone number. Elizabeth – Lady Smallwood – explained what your prior situation was; this reaction is perfectly reasonable and expected,”<br/>
And, with that, he was gone. She smiled, very briefly, and tucked the piece of card into her pocket.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Chapter 2 is set in 2011</p><p>Anthea is 33<br/>Mycroft is 45</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>14 YEARS LATER</p><p>Anthea yawned, glancing over at her alarm and wondering why she had woken up so early. Since Mycroft was spending the weekend in Surrey with his family, it was a rare day off for her and she usually took the opportunity to sleep in. She tugged the satin sheets back over her head and was about to go back to sleep when someone knocked - again. Oh. That was what had woken her up. </p><p>Anthea reached under her bed, scrabbling around for the box. It was one of the few things she had managed to get back from her childhood home – Lady Smallwood had pitied Anthea after arranging for her family to be relocated, so had sent agents in to gather as many items as they could. Anthea now kept a few old treasures in the pretty ornate box; her mothers’ necklace, her dogs’ collar, her sisters photograph… and Mycroft’s number. After that fateful afternoon 14 years ago that had brought them closer together, Anthea had only used it twice, but Mycroft had warned her that it must not be shared under any circumstances. She dialled it quickly with fumbling fingers.<br/>
“Hello?” his voice immediately calmed her. She realised she hadn’t replied when he repeated himself and cleared her throat quietly, whispering into the phone.<br/>
“It’s Anthea. There’s someone outside my door.”<br/>
“That’s nice. Go and answer it.”<br/>
“I don’t know who it is,”<br/>
“Probably just your postman. Or your groceries.”<br/>
“I order everything to the office, you know that.”<br/>
“Probably just a friend then!” he yawned down the line and she suddenly felt bad for waking him up.<br/>
“Please. I know you have it on your phone, can you just check my security camera.”<br/>
“Very well. I’ll text you.”<br/>
Before she had the chance to reply again, he hung up. Another heavy rap at the door, this time more insistent. Anthea leant under her bed again and took out the small black umbrella, slowly taking the gun out of its ferrule. Mycroft had insisted on her having some means to defend herself, but Anthea still hated guns, even now, and could never bear to look the soldiers in the eye when they visited her boss. Her phone buzzed suddenly, too loudly in the silent flat.<br/>
The text read “do you know a Chinese man, mid-fifties, shoulder-length black hair? - MH”<br/>
“No?” she typed back.<br/>
“Do NOT open your front door. Stay quiet.”<br/>
He replied so quickly that she could almost hear the panic through the words.<br/>
She padded to her bathroom as softly as she could, a death grip on her phone and gun.<br/>
She locked the door before she realised there was nothing else to do but sit on the floor. The last thing she needed was for her mystery psycho to see her through the window. Feeling only slightly guilty, she called up Mycroft’s name on her phone screen again and sent a brief text: “keep my mind off it?”<br/>
To her surprise, the reply didn’t come straight away. He usually always had his phone. And when it did come, her shoulders slumped.<br/>
“I can’t. Busy. MH”<br/>
Of course. She shouldn’t feel abandoned, she scolded herself. She had chosen to give up her family for a career, but it didn’t mean he needed to do the same. They were his brother, his mum, his dad, she was just a secretary, never mind whether she thought that she was one of the few friends he had.<br/>
That thought made the wash of grief hit her all over again. Lady Smallwood had assured her that, when her parents did pass away, she would be informed, but Anthea had still grieved when she had lost them. There were so many times when she nearly went to their new house. Wrap them all in the tightest hugs. Tease her sister. Laugh with her dad. Cry with her mum. Sit on the couch and never ever leave them again. She thought she had seen her sister in the street once and had immediately snatched her Blackberry out of her pocket, head down to avoid eye contact. She had a dog lead in one hand, a Labrador bouncing alongside her that looked so similar to their childhood pup. And there was a man, one hand around her waist and one hand on a pram. Anthea had nearly stopped, nearly run after them and begged her to recognise her. Was it pure coincidence that the dog looked the same or had Lola had puppies? What was the baby’s name? Who was her dashing young man? How were their parents? And then Mycroft had texted her, bringing her plummeting back to the real world.<b>

On cue, her phone buzzed, snapping her back to the present. Mycroft, again.
“Let me in.”</b></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea tiptoed to her front door, about to open it when she heard voices. She pressed her ear against the wood and had to strain to hear the rumble of Mycroft’s low voice. <br/>“Step away, sir,” he said. Clearly, someone was with him.<br/>Some other man spoke, but in such a thick deep accent that Anthea couldn’t distinguish what he was saying.<br/>“The woman you are trying to get at is my secretary, which makes this personal. I really hope for your sake you’ve come to the wrong door,” his words were polite enough, but the tone held fury beyond anything in him that Anthea had heard before.<br/>“You don’t know anything about her,” a third man, again with an accent but much clearer. “She’s not even called Anthea.”<br/>“I know that is not her original name. Yes, I do know everything about her. And she knows I will go to the ends of the Earth to protect her. So, I will tell you once more, leave.”<br/>“What if I don’t?” he laughed, a cold evil sound.<br/>“You don’t want to know,” Mycroft warned. <br/>Anthea knew the sound of a gun being cocked. She fumbled with her door lock, ready to throw the door open and help Mycroft. She only opened it a crack and was about to unlatch the chain when he angled very slightly, covering the door frame so she could see nothing but his back.<br/>The sound of something being thrown to the floor and another gun cocking. This time, whoever was holding the gun, didn’t hesitate and the shout of their victim filled the cold hallway a moment later. <br/>Anthea didn’t realise she had been holding her breath until Mycroft spoke. <br/>“Albert, take them away. Norbury can deal with them.”</p><p>He was silent until Anthea heard the door swing shut, then he spun effortlessly on one heel and looked down at her through the cracked open door.<br/>“That was extremely risky, Anthea. They wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot you.”<br/>“You killed them?”<br/>“Of course not. I despise the paperwork that comes with that type of situation. Had he not threatened me, I would have just knocked him out, but I had to shoot him in the shoulder to prevent being injured myself.”<br/>“Oh.”<br/>“Indeed. Can I come in?”<br/>“Oh, of course, sorry,” she scrabbled with the latch with shaking fingers, wanting nothing more than to drag him inside. She hadn’t realised, before. He had swapped the waistcoat and suit jacket for a blue blazer, left unbuttoned over a paler blue shirt and khaki trousers. Fighting the urge to pull him into a hug, she preoccupied her hands by gripping the doorframe harder. He clearly noticed and she could practically feel him deducting her. <br/>“I’m fine!” she insisted, turning her back and leading him into the sitting room.<br/>“You very nearly were not,”<br/>“Yes, well, thank you,”<br/>“It was my pleasure,” he said with a small smile. It was the kind tone that broke her. She had nearly died, and now he was concerned and he had come to her flat and he was being sweet and and -.<br/>And to her horror, she tasted the saltiness of tears and she noticed Mycroft looked as taken aback as she felt. He (very tentatively) put an arm around her shoulders and gently sat them down on the couch. <br/>“Maybe you should text Lady Smallwood?” he suggested. “Those men seemed to know about your past – she has the case file, she should know.”<br/>She hiccupped in agreement.</p><p>They sat in silence as Anthea quickly texted Lady Smallwood, and neither seemed surprised at the quick response. <br/>What did confuse Mycroft, however, was her reaction. Anthea hopped up from the sofa, but she could still feel his puzzled gaze on her back. <br/>“Elizabeth said I need sweet tea for shock,” she explained.<br/>“Tea?!” he nearly shouted, making her jump. “No, no, tea won’t do. You need something much stronger!”<br/>“You’re not exactly one to go to the pub,” she laughed. <br/>“You must have something here. Whisky, brandy, port?”<br/>She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t like to drink alone.”<br/>She appreciated that he didn’t question why and just nodded in understanding. “Very well then. We shall go to the… pub. Just this once, mind.”<br/>Anthea had to make an effort not to gape. He stared at her and she stuttered for words. “Pyjamas,” she croaked.<br/>“I’m sorry?”<br/>“Pyjamas! I’m in my pyjamas, still, sorry. I’ll just go and… get dressed,” she stammered, tugging at the pink satin. <br/>“Is what I’m wearing appropriate?” he asked.<br/>“Sure, you look… nice!” she half-laughed, waving a hand at him.<br/>“You sound unsure?” he asked tentatively, she would say almost shyly but when was Mycroft ever shy?<br/>“No, no, you really do! It’s just… well, I’ve never seen you out of a suit!”<br/>His eyebrows raised and she suddenly realised how that must have sounded. “God, no, not like that! I’m really embarrassing myself, aren’t I?”<br/>“Quite understandable given the shock, Anthea. I shall wait here, go and get dressed.”</p><p>She stood in front of the wardrobe, absolutely packed with clothes, with no idea where to start. Her simple black work dresses would have been good enough, but they were all at the dry cleaners since it was a Saturday.  <br/>She fingered her blue tee and jeans. No – that would make her look like she was out with her husband, especially since Mycroft was wearing a similar blue jacket.<br/>She hopefully yanked at a black dress that looked like it had prospect – definitely not! She’d forgotten she’d even had that, with a neckline too low and a hem too high.<br/>“I really need to go shopping,” she sighed to herself.</p><p>“Much more appropriate than the pink satin, I must say,” Mycroft complimented as she stepped out. She’d finally settled on a navy floral skirt that brushed her knees and a long-sleeved white shirt. As she was about to step out, she realised Mycroft had never seen her without makeup, and although he probably didn’t notice things like that, she hurriedly grabbed her lipstick, slipped on her sunglasses and twisted her hair up.<br/>“Those earrings must be ancient by now,” he mused.<br/>“14 years,” she said, twiddling them between her neatly manicured hands. “You got them for me.” One day, not long after starting her new job, her necklace had snapped, and he had walked on her crying over it. She had felt ridiculous, crying over a few beads and had pretended it never happened… until he came in with an earring box the following day. She had refused at first, she said they were lovely, but she couldn’t possibly take his money until he had assured her that he wouldn’t even notice the expense. <br/>He didn’t reply, simply smiled and offered the crook of his arm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a slightly longer chapter. I considered splitting it into two but it would have made it ridiculously unproportioned.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Barkeep!” bellowed Mycroft down the bar, wincing at the sticky mess he had leaned in. This was the third pub that Anthea had dragged him to – she had forgotten that on a Saturday afternoon people would be eating their pub lunches. She had found a pub that seemed to solely consist of old men sitting on bar stools and staring down into their beer. </p><p>Anthea practically gaped when Mycroft belched beside her. He clearly wasn’t used to drinking in great quantities. In fact, the most she had ever seen him drink was half a glass of scotch.</p><p>“What?” the grumpy bartender ambled over, putting another pint of cider in front of Anthea.<br/>
“I want a beer,” he demanded.<br/>
“You sure that’s wise, mate?”<br/>
Anthea tapped him on the elbow. “You’ve been drinking a lot of brandy, it’s best not to mix.”<br/>
“Don’t care. Come on, new experiences!” he smacked his hand on top of the bar.<br/>
Anthea could do nothing more than laugh.<br/>
“What beer do you want then buddy?”<br/>
As Mycroft demanded the strongest beer there was, Anthea noted vaguely through her drunken fog that she was amazed Mycroft was allowing this man to call him ‘buddy.’<br/>
“I don’t like this much,” Mycroft sniffed beside her, sounding like a child. To her surprise, he snatched the remains of her glass of cider and downed it. “Let’s go,” he said with a loud hiccup. </p><p>Anthea could do nothing more than laugh as Mycroft stumbled on to her sofa and flopped face down. To her astonishment, they’d managed to stay out drinking until 8pm – it was no surprise he was tired.<br/>
“We should probably go to bed,” she slurred.<br/>
“Good idea!” </p><p>She didn’t know quite what to do as he bounced up and strolled through her bedroom door.</p><p>She followed very tentatively. He was already laying on the left side of the bed, arms propped under his head and ankles crossed. He’d shed his jacket, shoes and socks, she noticed, and he looked practically naked in just the white shirt and trousers. She grabbed the pink satin pyjamas she had abandoned earlier and tiptoed into the en-suite to change.</p><p>Her eyes fluttered open, confused why she was awake when the room was still shrouded in the dark of the night. The clock on her bedside table flashed at her; it was only 3am. She rolled over, ready to go back to sleep, but a shadowy silhouette stood over her. It took her brain a moment to catch up but she realised who it was before she could grope for the alarm in her bedside table – Mycroft. </p><p>“You okay?” She whispered, reaching for the lamp.<br/>
“Yeah,” he mumbled back.<br/>
They both winced at the sharp light on their sleepy eyes. “Sor- oh!”</p><p>Mycroft was not one to blush, but the tips of his ears rapidly went red. His shirt was unbuttoned over his chest and his trousers were kicked to one side… leaving him just in his plain navy boxers.</p><p>“It’s just that my trousers were digging in and it was uncomfortable…” he explained hesitatingly.<br/>

“Yeah, course, sorry, no need to explain, really,” Anthea could practically feel the fire in her cheeks. The disadvantage of being a natural redhead, she thought, annoyed. She rolled on to her back, staring at the ceiling to give him any remaining scrap of privacy.<br/>

He grunted (an acknowledgement of thanks?) and climbed back into the bed, as far away from her as possible so he nearly slipped out, then tucked the sheets firmly around himself for good measure despite the summer heat.<br/>

“Well, um... night,” she ventured. He grunted again – that was probably the closest thing to a reply she was going to get.<br/>

She was almost certain he’d be able to feel how hard her heart was beating as she switched the light off and lay down again, facing away from him. She’d never be able to sleep this way, and she was pretty sure he felt so awkward he wouldn’t either. “How’s your head?” she murmured with a slight giggle.<br/>

“It hurts.”<br/>

“We drank a bit much, I think.”<br/>

“Just a bit,” he chuckled.<br/>

“Bit of a lightweight?”<br/>

“Go to sleep, Anthea,” he said with another gravelly laugh. It’s good to hear him laugh, she thought as she drifted off.</p><p>When she woke up against, light filtered through the crack in her curtains. Her mouth felt drier than a desert, she noted as her stomach rolled. </p><p>Then she froze.</p><p>Something - someone - warm was spooned against her back, an arm flung over her and cupping her breast. And, yes, with the smallest shift of her hips she confirmed something indistinguishably hard digging into her bum. Despite the awkwardness of the situation she had found herself in, she couldn’t help but smirk. So, the ‘Ice Man’ was human after all, morning wood and all. Experimentally, she rocked her hips more firmly this time. He groaned rutting forwards ever so slightly. She couldn’t turn her head without disturbing him to check whether he was awake, but she couldn’t stop the heat flaring between her thighs at the primal masculine sound from him.<br/>

She suddenly realised, as soon as he woke, he would notice her arousal. She had met his brother just once – deductions seemed to be a family trait.<br/>

“Mycroft,” she whispered. It was better to stop before it escalated any further and he got even more embarrassed. He mumbled something nonsensical into her hair. 

“Mycroft,” she repeated a tad louder, nudging her shoulder against his chest.<br/>

“Mmm,” he muttered, nuzzling her hair again with a deep inhale. He was only half awake, she realised, and very gently shifted her hips forward. He automatically moved with her – then froze.<br/>

“It’s okay, really,” she whispered after a pause, knowing he must feel as humiliated as she did.<br/>

He seemed to suddenly notice one of his hands was unconsciously cupping her breast and very slowly went to withdraw it. “Not very professional of - ”<br/> 

Anthea bit her lip to (unsuccessfully) try and stifle a moan as his hand brushed against her bare stomach. He paused.<br/>
“Don’t stop?”</p><p>His breath hitched and she bit the inside of her cheek, hard. He was right, it was so unprofessional, it was an unconscious mistake and she had gone too far. Maybe they could just go back to the office and pretend nothing had happened and – and his hand was moving again. His hand splayed out, two fingers gently massaging her stomach and one finger running over the waistband of her sleep shorts. 

He finally exhaled, warm against her neck, seeming to ask permission. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, but he would still notice – he saw everything. 

His hands dipped under the waistband, pushing the shorts away, his thumb stroking her clit, one finger sliding through her folds and slipping into her almost effortlessly. Her head fell back into the crook of his neck and he kissed her hair.<br/>
“You’re so wet. For me.” He murmured, curling his finger gently inside her and grinning at her moan. </p><p>“Wait,” she said. He froze again, slowly taking his hand out her shorts and she suddenly wondered how long it had been for him; he seemed so shy. “not like that,” she laughed gently, trying to reassure him. She took his hand, trying not to flush at the slick warmth that coated his fingers, then rolled over in the bed to face him. She had to make an effort not to gasp. His chest heaving, pupils blown wide, cock already straining against his boxers. </p><p>“Now, that doesn’t look very comfortable,” she smirked. Behind the façade, she was panicking. Did she dare actually take touch him? Her worry must have been written across her face, because he reached for her hand, just as she had done for him and nodded at her with a smile. </p><p>His smile slackened as she trailed a hand through his chest hair, sneaking under the boxer shorts and gripping him in her small fist. A few pumps, a choked sound from above as she grazed her finger over his tip. She grinned naughtily and disappeared under the sheets. He was bigger than any she’d had before, and she absolutely loved it. </p><p>“Come here,” he murmured, seeming ready to say something else. She didn’t want to talk. She only knew one way to make a guy shut up. </p><p>Her tongue licked a stripe up his cock and his back automatically arched off the bed, arms flailing hopelessly. She grabbed one, winding his long fingers into her hair and leaning down to engulf him fully. At that, he groaned her name helplessly and she peeked up at him through her lashes. Red, panting, eyes blown wide… and completely irresistible. She swallowed, tongue circling, taking him as far as she could and heard him grunt in the effort not to thrust into her mouth. He whimpered as she pulled away and grazed her teeth over his thigh, teasing him, but he knew exactly what she wanted to hear. “Please!” he bit out between gritted teeth, balling his free hand in the sheets so he doesn’t tug her back up. And as she takes him back in, he realises he doesn’t have long. He can't talk, for fear of going off there and then and tugs a bit harder at her hair to warn her. With a small hand on his hip, her head continues to bob over him and he has to resist the overwhelming urge to thrust into her warm wet mouth. He scrabbled for her other hand but when he couldn't find it, glances down and realises she’s touching herself. 

She hums around him suddenly, the friction almost killing him and that’s what does it. He’s coming with her name on his lips, winding his hand further into her hair, and he vaguely registers she’s swallowing around him, bringing him down from the best orgasm of his life and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. </p><p>With a final swirl of her tongue, she sits back on her haunches and watches him. The dazed smile falters and he gapes, still not meeting her eye and she realises what she’s done with the unique taste of him still on her tongue. She tugs her top down, thankful that’s still on, to try and maintain some decency (although what is left of it by now?) and dashes into the bathroom, not even registering whatever he says as she goes. She hurriedly locks the door and sinks down against it, trying to ignore the throb between her thighs. No, she scolds herself, Anthea Johnson – Cecily Blaine – does not cry over men.<br/>
“Anthea?” she hears. He’s on the other side of the door, knocking hesitantly.  </p><p>She ignores him and switches the fan on for a nice, hot shower. She can sort herself out, she’s used to it by now. Never even had a boyfriend. It was always just casual sex.<br/>
She swills mouth wash to get rid of his taste and chucks her pyjama top in the laundry, then steps under the hot flow, ignoring the persistent knocking. It’s difficult to get in the mood with him calling outside, she notes as she runs a flannel across her breasts and lowers a hand to the throb between her legs.</p><p>And then the door crashes down. She squeaks, hands flying to cover her breasts. Mycroft looks breathless and shocked at his own strength. She can’t help but giggle at him dressed in nothing, apart from the white shirt unbuttoned across his torso. The sound gets his attention and the look of surprise is quickly taken over with one of… hunger?<br/>

“Anthea, you’re gorgeous,” he utters, eyes raking over her.<br/>

She snorts at the pure audacity. “You disturb my shower, break my door down and now you’re just standing there like a loony?”<br/>

“Suppose you’re right. It’s cold, budge over.”</p><p>She doesn’t know what to say when he steps into the shower beside her, still wearing his shirt, and closes the glass door again. At least he didn’t break that one. There’s not a lot of room in the shower and she’s startled to feel he’s hard, again, already. Apparently, however, he wants to talk.</p><p>“Why did you run away?”<br/>

“I didn’t run away. I’m not a child.”<br/>

“I bloody well know that!” he snapped.<br/>

“We shouldn’t have had sex,” she said as means of an explanation.<br/>

“And why not?”<br/>

“First, you’re my boss. I’d lose my job. And - ”<br/>

“It’s not exactly a normal job we do. Nobody is going to find out, so long as neither you or I say anything. I certainly don’t share aspects of my personal life at work and I’m not going to fire you.”<br/>

“Don’t interrupt. I was trying to say the other thing. You’re the infamous ‘Ice Man.’ You don’t do stuff like… this,” she waved a hand between them, trying not to think how sexy he looked now the shirt was wet and clinging to his body.<br/>

“Pretty certain that I do,” he stepped closer, pressing the proof against her thigh.<br/>

She dropped her head back against the tile, baring her neck for him and he swallows audibly, all traces of an argument gone.<br/>

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered, his voice dropping as she wiggled against him.<br/>

“No,” she dared.<br/>

With a groan, he buried his head in her shoulder, pressing open mouthed kisses to her. “I don’t like your shower much.”<br/>

She swatted him.

“Ouch. I just mean it just makes things a bit uncomfortable. Here, try this.” He gripped a thigh and helped her jump up, wrapping her legs around his waist. His cock slid through her folds and they both moaned as he shifted, ready to thrust into her.<br/>

“Anthea?”<br/>

“Yeah?” she said breathlessly. He really wanted to chat, now?!<br/>

“You’re right, we shouldn’t do this,”<br/>

“We shouldn’t,” she agreed.<br/>

She could feel his legs shaking in effort.<br/>

“Tell me to stop,” he repeated into her shoulder.<br/>

And she should. Ohhh, they should really stop. And it would be easy enough – she could just shove him away and pretend it never happened. But then his cock, hard and leaking for her, brushes her clit and, god, it's heaven and he’d better not stop and it's gonna be the best orgasm of her life because she's wanted this for so long and...<br/>
“Don’t you dare,” she said, so quietly he might not hear, but then she grabs a handful of his wet dress shirt and he thrusts into her, and it’s stretching her, but it’s heavenly.</p><p>Once she got used to the feel of him inside her (she’d never get enough of him), she waited. Nothing happened.<br/>
“Mycroft,” she whispered. “Move.”<br/>

“Just - give me a – minute,” he panted, sucking at her neck.<br/>

Oh.<br/>
“It’s okay. I’m close too.”<br/>

With that, he let out a growl and thrusted, slow and shallow at first, gradually getting harder and faster until he was slamming into her and she was scrabbling for purchase on the slick walls, eventually clinging to his back.<br/>

“Gonna come,” he gasped.<br/>

“Nearly,” she practically begged. He snaked a hand between their bodies, rubbing at her clit, and she came, his name ricocheting off the glass walls. The feel of her delicate muscles clenching around him set him off and he came with a shout, muffled against her shoulder. </p><p>He helped her unwrap herself and stand on shaky legs, both of them whimpering but not uttering a word as his cock slipped out. </p><p>He speaks first. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but clear enough to break Anthea’s heart. She turns away, trying to cover herself with her bare arms, but it's too late for that now. “Go. Please.”</p><p>“I didn’t mean - ”<br/>

“I said go.”</p><p>He waits a moment before she hears the shower door open.<br/>
“I’ll send someone to fix your door.” </p><p>And that’s it. As soon as the rustling of clothes has stopped and the front door lock clicks, Anthea lets the tears come.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Anthea and Mycroft really need a chat...</p><p>(Just want to apologise for not updating for ages! I broke my hand and I couldn't go to the hospital due to Covid so it's been difficult to type - it's less painful now though)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>4 WEEKS LATER<br/>
Anthea collapsed on the armchair just inside her front door, absolutely exhausted. She had been in Hawaii – alone – for nearly a month, doing nothing more than soaking up the sun and lounging round hotels. Over the past fourteen years, she had taken barely any time off so she had gathered up a lot of holiday time. How better to wrap her head around her… problem than sun, sand and sex on the beach? The cocktail, of course. She had dreaded coming home again, but she reminded herself that she had survived being kidnapped, being used as an assassin and fourteen years with the Ice Man. What she wasn’t so good at, however, was travelling. She had slept through her alarm, unusually, and was out of breath when she got to the airport. Sickness pills usually worked but Anthea had been sick as a dog on the flight home. </p><p>Better get on, she thought despairingly, and glared at the pile of mail that had accumulated. </p><p>Bills, bills, more bills, vouchers, one from her neighbour… and one in awfully familiar spidery handwriting. He had tried calling the same afternoon he left her flat but she had sent it straight to voicemail, then emailed to say she was taking a holiday. Sighing, she kicked the others aside (she’d deal with them later) and wandered into the kitchen, already prising Mycroft’s letter open.<br/>
He hadn’t signed it properly – he never did – just put his initials and his ink stamp:</p><p>CALL ME WHEN YOU ARRIVE HOME PLEASE. MH.</p><p>Her shoulders slumped – she really hoped he would have forgotten the whole incident and they could get on as normal. </p><p>Except, she reminded herself, he was still her boss. He might want to talk about work. After all, she had been gone for 4 weeks, so had no idea what was happening in the office. It was unlikely that he was pining over her – he’d never even had a relationship (that she knew of) and sex was probably just stress relief for him. </p><p>He picked up after just two rings. She refused to speak first. On balance, he had been the one to send her a letter.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “Anthea?”</p><p>“Evening, Mycroft.”</p><p>“How was the flight home?”</p><p>“All went smoothly, thank you.” He certainly didn’t need to know how unwell she was feeling.</p><p>“Good, I’m glad that you’re safe – that’s good.”</p><p>She waited silently, to no response, then sighed. “Look, Mycroft, you asked me to call, so unless the country is at stake, I’m going to bed - jet lag is a killer.”</p><p>“Oh? Oh – no it’s nothing to do with work.”</p><p>Her breath caught, but she still didn’t speak.</p><p>He cleared his throat, again. “It’s, well, um, I think anyway, that we should… talk.”</p><p>“What about?” she asked innocently, feigning innocence.</p><p>“Don’t act dumb, Anthea.” He grumbled. “We should talk before we go back to work, I don’t want this to affect us at work - or elsewhere.”</p><p>“No, we don’t. Goodnight, Mycroft,” before he could even open his mouth, she had hung up.</p><p>Damn. She sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to sleep now. She sighed, making her way back to the pile of bills – best to start now instead of putting it off. She smiled as a number of vouchers fell into her lap, she did like shopping. One for Waitrose, one for a perfume, one for a garden centre and one for tampons. </p><p>Anthea froze. She barely registered the vouchers fluttering to the floor as she started furiously counting on her fingers, having to almost heave for breath. That night with Mycroft had been the 25 May and she was due on the 27. She had gone four weeks without a period and hadn’t even noticed, she scolded herself. </p><p>“Probably just the travel, or the stress, something like that,” she muttered to herself as she hunted the apartment for her purse. “You’re stressing over nothing,” she tried to quietly reassure as she locked her door.</p><p>Pulling her cap further down over her head, she shuffled to the counter and thrust the small box at the shop assistant. She had received some strange looks as she came in wearing a cap and sunglasses, but she really wanted to avoid Mycroft spying on her with his security cameras. </p><p>“Do you have a bathroom?” she muttered quietly to the shop assistant. “She’s pitying me,” Anthea thought, as the woman pointed out the pokey bathroom. </p><p>It was quite nice, considering. It was one entire room, rather than a line of stalls. It was plainly decorated, but there was a vase of flowers and a reed diffuser on the windowsill that masked any funky smells. She opened the box and peed on it quickly with fumbling fingers, then turned it upside down on the counter. She leant her head against the mirror, relishing the cool glass against her feverish panic. </p><p>She was obviously still exhausted, as the timer on her phone startled her from where she had begun to doze leaning against the wall. </p><p>“Really don’t want to look at it” she muttered. Even the thought of it made her feel sick and dizzy – not a good sign. She bit on a knuckle and steeled herself, then flipped it over. </p><p>Anthea bit her lip to muffle a sob, so hard she could taste blood. Fuck. She was pregnant – with the Holmes heir.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anyone who doesn't like the element of a pregnancy in a fic - please don't fret, this isn't going to turn into some fluffy domestic bliss for them!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She steeled herself, one hand on the door handle. She knew she couldn’t put work off for any longer and had to drag herself in just a day after finding out she was pregnant. </p><p>Being forced to lean over her toilet since 5am that morning had given her plenty of time to think. Mycroft simply couldn’t know. He wasn’t father material, he didn’t want a child and their lives – no - her life and his life, Anthea reminded herself, the only thing they shared was a career path.</p><p>Being only four weeks along meant she had a lot of time to think. The thought of abortion made her feel extra queasy. That little poppy seed inside her, it was nothing, it was insignificant, but it was hers. And Mycroft’s, she reminded herself gloomily. She didn’t think she’d be able to cope – or hide it from him – with a little boy. Would he have the dark brown hair, the pronounced cheekbones, the piercing blue-grey eyes? Perhaps it would be curly hair, like hers. After all, Mycroft’s brother had sported untamed curls on the few occasions he had breezed into the office.</p><p>“Yes?” Mycroft shouted testily from behind the door. Anthea realised she must have got caught up in her thoughts again – that seemed to be happening a lot recently – and quietly opened the door. </p><p>“Ah, Anthea, good, I was hoping it was you.” She gripped her cup of green tea a bit tighter. “I need to talk to you about the Prime Minister – are you quite alright?”</p><p>She had stumbled and grabbed the edge of his desk, a wave of nausea hitting her suddenly like a ton of bricks. Fighting the urge to gag, she nodded weakly. “Just jet lagged.”</p><p>He paused, then stood and came to her side. She didn’t push him away – was she to fall again it would be nice to avoid a cracked skull. </p><p>“Please do forgive me for saying so, it’s simply for your wellbeing. But a thought a month in Hawaii would refresh you. You look terribly pasty.”</p><p>“Ha – thanks.”</p><p>“Have you fallen out with Harry?”</p><p>“What?” she laughed. Harry was their doorman, a lovely man. </p><p>“You always smell of his cigarettes when you come for your morning briefing.” Of course. She had gone via the other entrance today. Harry was a heavy chain smoker and she didn’t think her stomach could cope with it that morning. Of course Mycroft would pick up on that. He was sniffing again, leaning towards her cup and frowning.</p><p>“Green tea? Where’s your espresso?” </p><p>He was close now. So close she could smell his expensive cologne. A musk of bergamot and cedarwood enveloped her, just as it had that one night. And under that… rich tobacco, from his sneaky morning cigarette when he was especially stressed. Nope – even the green tea wouldn’t help this one. She thrust the cup at him, gagged and ran from the room.</p><p>-<br/>-<br/>-</p><p>“Anthea? Anthea, open the door.”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“I’m worried about you.”</p><p>“Don’t be!”</p><p>Anthea locked herself inside her office and leant her forehead against the cool wooden door. Mycroft, on the other hand, was pacing anxiously and continually knocking. He was about to demand that she let him in – he was her boss after all – when he heard a muffled sob and a small thunk as she sat down against the door. He snapped his mouth shut and found a piece of notepaper to scribble on inside his jacket, then retreated quietly. The Prime Minister could wait.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The umbrella, synchronised with its owners footsteps, paused outside her door and Anthea sucked in a breath, hoping he couldn’t see her shadow. Only after the lights flickered out and the door clicked shut, did she finally peek out and dash to the door. </p><p>Ten minutes later, she rushed into her apartment and sank on to the sofa, absolutely mortified. How did she think she could trick Mycroft into thinking everything was alright? Not only was he the most powerful man in England (at least), but he was a bloody genius. At least he (hopefully) hadn’t sussed out what was exactly wrong, but almost collapsing and then bursting into tears must have been a pretty big clue.</p><p>Maybe she should just start another new life? Her job had paid well over 14 years and she had enough that she would never need to work another day of her life. Plus, she just couldn’t bring Mycroft’s child up and see him every day without ever telling him. It would be easy. Just quit her job, dye her hair and relocate… again. But then, her job was all she had. She sighed, resigned to finding another solution. </p><p>Just as she was starting to doze off, wrapped in her mother’s old blanket, her phone rang, strangely shrill in the silence of the apartment. She couldn’t help but sigh with relief that it was Elizabeth Smallwood, rather than Mycroft. </p><p>“Evening, Lady Smallwood,” she tried to sound as put together as she could.</p><p>“Ah, Anthea, sorry to wake you up. I did try to reach the office today but got no answer.”</p><p>“Sorry, I’m not with Mycroft right now.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s not him I’m after. I’m hosting a party, a ball, tomorrow evening at my house in Battersea. Can you make it?”</p><p>Maybe it would be a nice distraction. She couldn’t drink, but she could see some familiar faces that weren’t a Holmes. “Yes, yes I’ll be there, I look forward to it.”</p><p>“Excellent! One more thing, it’s a masked ball.”</p><p> </p><p>Anthea texted Mycroft to say she was sick the next morning, not expecting a response, and took the opportunity of a day off to shop. She had never been to a ball before and had absolutely no idea what to wear, but after a brief google image search, it was her own personal paradise. Even the morning sickness didn’t put her off and she tentatively chewed a cracker before sweeping through the door.<br/>
It took her four hours before she finally stumbled back in, laden down with bags. With a fresh paycheck in her pocket, she certainly had a lot of options. She had immediately headed for her favourite designer – Marchesa Notte – and wasn’t let done by a satin trimmed, pastel pink tulle gown that swept her ankles. Content with her choice, she had left the shop to find accessories, but staggered to a stop in front of a smaller shop window tucked into a more boutique corner of Oxford Street. The shop assistant gave her a brief smile as she peeked in, then went back to arranging a rack of shirts. Only when Anthea was running her hand along the skirt of one of the dresses did the assistant glide over, in the way only retail staff can. </p><p>“Yes, those two are beautiful, attracted a lot of attention.”<br/>
“I couldn’t possibly decide between the two,” Anthea mused, moving slowly to the other one.<br/>
“Yes, the disadvantages of expensive clothing is not being able to get it all I suppose!”<br/>
A quick scan couldn’t find a price label. “How much?”<br/>
“£105 and £102.”<br/>
Anthea had to physically restraint a snort of laughter. The dress in her bag had cost £500, on sale. “I’ll take both.”<br/>
The shop assistant looked like she was going to faint, but she hurried to the till so quickly it was like she was expecting Anthea to change her mind. “Anything else you’d like, madam?”<br/>
She was clearly gesturing to the rack of (frankly tacky) jewellery on the counter, but Anthea had been drawn to something else entirely; a tiny baby romper, patterned with cartoon umbrellas. </p><p> </p><p>Anthea slipped the last few crystal pins into the complicated updo her hairdresser had crafted and slipped the masquerade mask on, careful not to smudge her dark eye makeup. Once she had dropped all her shopping off back at the apartment, she had rushed to the salons. She was now decked out with a full face of makeup, a fancy hair do, long French nails. The nude heels, pearl choker and clutch just completed the look of the dress she had chosen. The dress was beautiful – embellished in gold sequins, it hugged her figure and showed just enough with its low cut, singular shoulder strap and thigh high split.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In case you're wondering what sort of picture I've tried to create for Anthea, I've put links I got inspired by underneath;</p><p>https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/533817362061699101/</p><p>https://www.hebeos.co.uk/sheath-column-sleeveless-one-shoulder-sweep-brush-train-beading-sequins-dresses-po16033po1855.html?ref=googleplauk&amp;gclid=CjwKCAjwjLD4BRAiEiwAg5NBFhiHCiL-Xr2Pe1EfxxET9RlC93qBjRkG0lycFqvSqET36k6Rb8bLgBoCEj4QAvD_BwE</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Anthea, darling, you look simply stunning!” Lady Smallwood strode in from the dining room, as quickly as someone in heels could stride.</p><p>“Thank you, Elizabeth, so do you. Am I late?”</p><p>“No, no, don’t worry. Here, give Albert your shawl else you’ll be awfully hot. We’re all in the reception room, let me show you the way, we’ll eat in about 20 minutes, as long as that’s alright with you?”</p><p>“Of course, thank you.”</p><p>“There’s chicken and fish on the menu, are you able to manage the chicken?”</p><p>Anthea froze and Elizabeth fixed her with a look, one eyebrow cocked and a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Congratulations, my dear girl.”</p><p>“How did you know?” Anthea whispered, running her hands along her torso. “I’m not showing yet am I?” </p><p>“No, not at all. But I have three children and seven grandchildren, I know the signs. You’re simply glowing.”</p><p>Anthea beckoned her to move to the window, not wanting to be overheard, and shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want anyone to know yet. I only found out myself yesterday. Even the father doesn’t know yet.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry for bringing up a delicate subject - ”</p><p>“No, it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’m just saying because Mycroft doesn’t know yet. I know he’s my boss, but I don’t have to worry about maternity leave for another 7 months or so.”</p><p>Elizabeth fixed her with another look, slightly more suspicious this time and Anthea squirmed inwardly, hoping she couldn’t see what Anthea was trying desperately to hide. However, without another word she nodded with a friendly smile and continued their way through the magnificent house. </p><p>“So who else is here?” Anthea asked as she was ushered through.</p><p>Elizabeth didn’t even get the opportunity to answer before Anthea heard a squeal of her name from the other side of the room and turned around just in time to see Isabel barrel towards her. Isabel was one of Elizabeth’s new, young secretaries – unlike Mycroft she had more than one. Elizabeth had asked Anthea to keep an eye on Isabel, since she was so nervous and all by herself. Anthea had grown fond of the younger woman; she reminded her of her own little sister. </p><p>Anthea gave Elizabeth a small apologetic smile as she was practically dragged away by the excitable Isabel.<br/>
“Isn’t this place just gorgeous? Reminds me of – is that man staring at us?”</p><p>“Who?” Anthea didn’t bother to turn around, she was well used to people staring.</p><p>“Yeah, he’s definitely staring.”</p><p>“Maybe he’s seen you around before.”</p><p>“No, it’s not me, don’t think he’s even noticed me. It’s you. Don’t turn around!” She hissed the last bit before Anthea had the opportunity to crane her neck.</p><p>“Well, who is he then? What’s he look like?”</p><p>“Um, tall, ice blue eyes, really short brown hair, fancy suit, he’s got an umbrella – god knows why – Anthea? Anthea, come back!”</p><p>Cold dread filled her and it only took a quick glance over her shoulder to lock eyes with Mycroft. She hauled herself up off the elegant futon and sprinted out the glass doors on the other side of the room to Mycroft. </p><p>Mycroft, meanwhile, had entered late. Having been to the Smallwood manor for meetings many times, he knew his way around, but had been delayed at the door by a phone call from the Chancellor. As he had stepped in to the reception room, he had begun to scan the room for the hostess, when his eyes locked on to the undeniably prettiest woman in the room. She was facing away, talking to someone. The gold dress that was effortlessly draped over the one shoulder looked simply beautifully and her hair was twisted up elegantly. And then his heart almost stuttered to a stop. There was an unmistakeably delicate tattoo at the nape of her neck, so minimal he could have missed it. Five years ago, Anthea had shyly swept her hair out the way and showed him the tiny leaf tattoo after she had gotten inked at the weekend. He only realised he couldn’t tear his eyes away when Anthea’s friend gestured subtlety to him and she twisted briefly on her seat. And then she was gone.</p><p>“Anthea!” he called, tucking the umbrella firmly in his elbow and hurrying after.</p><p>“Mycroft, I need to talk to you - ” Lady Smallwood appeared from nowhere but he barely registered her, breaking into a full run after her out the doors.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea didn’t know where she was running, the only light she had was from the street lamps, after she got away from the manor. She didn’t even know how long she had been running, but eventually stopped when one ankle gave out, wheezing for breath. With a scrap of energy, calves burning, she staggered to the railings and leant out over the river, breathing in the faintly smoky air. She had heard Mycroft shout her name and had heard the slap of footsteps following her, but hoped she had lost him in the dark. She just couldn’t face him. Not right now. </p><p>“Cecily?” someone whispered from behind her. Anthea froze. Nobody spoke that name. Elizabeth and Mycroft knew it, but they never said it, for her own sake. Except…</p><p>She clung to the railing for support, hardly daring to hope as she turned. </p><p>Even after 17 years, Anthea hadn’t forgotten a single detail – she had sworn to herself she never would. The natural, honey blonde hair had darker streaks in now. The big brown eyes were more tired and more sad, but the ever playful essence still shimmered beneath. They had never looked alike. Anthea looked like their mother… and Christina like their father. </p><p>Anthea cocked her head, blinking back tears. “Hello, sis,” she breathed.</p><p>Christina clapped a hand to her mouth, muffling a sob. Anthea wrapped her in her arms and couldn’t help but remember doing the same when they were small children. She reached for a handkerchief and realised she had left the bag with everything in it at the manor. It was good she had found a familiar face, else she wouldn’t have even be find out where she was. Instead, remaining careful of her nails, she used her thumb to wipe her little sisters tears away and waited until she spoke first.</p><p>“W – we thought you were d – dead, Cece! You just dis-disappeared!” her sister gasped.</p><p>“I wasn’t. I was… taken. They said I had to do what they said or they would hurt you, and mum and dad.” Anthea's voice cracked slightly.</p><p>“Not that! When you went missing at 16, well, we hoped you were still alive – at least we still had hope! But then we got that note!”</p><p>Anthea’s blood ran cold. “What note?” she choked out. </p><p>“It wasn’t signed. It was from the same people who took you. They said they killed you.”</p><p>“When was this?” Anthea was struggling not to cry herself. She had to ask again, her younger sister clearly caught up in the presumably horrible memories.</p><p>“Thirteen years ago, today. Why do you think we’re out tonight?”</p><p>“You still look for me? But you thought I was dead?”</p><p>“We never gave up hope! How could we? We look out for you everyday, but we go out deliberately all night on the anniversary!”</p><p>“Where are mum and dad?”</p><p>“They’re on the other block. Oh god, I should ring them.”</p><p>“No, don’t!” Anthea insisted, snatching the phone that Christina produced.</p><p>“They’re our parents, Cece! You’ve been missing for 17 years! It nearly killed them – and me.”</p><p>“I know, I know, but... please.” She practically begged. She couldn't do anything else and hoped against hope that Christina would listen. She couldn't face her parents right now, needed to talk to her sister just as they did as kids. </p><p>“Ten minutes, then." She reluctantly agreed. "You can tell me what happened.”</p><p>So, Anthea sat her little 28-year-old sister down on the bench. She told her everything, obviously excluding names. She told her how, seventeen years ago, she tried to hail a taxi. What she got in clearly wasn’t a taxi, but it was too late by the time she realised. She was dragged to the basement, where another girl already was, but she was shot when she tried to escape. Anthea said how she wasn’t afraid, how she expected to be shot too. She only cared when the family were threatened. She was trained up and shoved into the world, then locked up when she wasn’t doing his dirty work. And how she had been rescued after three years by someone from the government, why she had a different name and a different look, why the family had been moved one day, how she had a good job now. </p><p>“And do I have a brother-in-law?”</p><p>“No!” Anthea laughed. “I’m living nearby, though. Near Westminster.”</p><p>“Fancy!”</p><p>They sat in companionable silence for a minute, then Anthea remembered something. “I saw you, I think.”</p><p>Christina paused before asking. “When?”</p><p>“Oo, about two years ago now, I think. I’m being rough here.”</p><p>“It was you! Peter thought he saw you and told me but when I turned around all I could see was a crowd!”</p><p>“Peter?”</p><p>“The man I was with, my husband. And the baby we were with is Elijah. Well, not a baby anymore, he’s two and a half now!”</p><p>“I’m an auntie?”</p><p>“Yeah, I suppose you are! There’s Noah, too. They know all about you. Am I an auntie yet?”</p><p>“I never realised how hard it would be on you. You were only 12 went I went missing. And, no.”</p><p>“Ah, this is the first then.”</p><p>Anthea didn’t respond.</p><p>“A mother always knows,” Christina laughed to the unasked question. “Still fairly new, yeah? Not showing yet, but the daft smile and the way you keep touching your tummy.”</p><p>“Yes. But, Chrissy, the dad, well, yes, doesn’t matter, you’re right.”</p><p>“No, go on, what's the dad done?”</p><p>“It’s a bit of an awkward situation. The dad is my boss.”</p><p>“Haha, get you! You always were the one who got all the boys!”</p><p>“Didn’t date any of them though did I? I’m not with Mycroft.”</p><p>“Mycroft?! What sort of name is that!”</p><p>“Oh god.” Anthea realised what she had just said. “I’ve told you too much. Look, Chrissy, I’ve gotta go.”</p><p>“What? No!”</p><p>“Yes. It’s for your own good. You’ll see me again soon, hopefully, but don’t tell mum or dad. Not yet. I’ve put you all in danger, again.”<br/>
Christina shouted after her as she broke off in another run.</p><p>Christina was left, gobsmacked as her missing sister disappeared into the darkness… once again. Fumbling her way back to the bench, she buried her head in her hands, muttering to herself through sobs. So caught up in her own distress, she didn’t notice the squeak of the wooden bench as someone sat down beside her, so she nearly jumped out her own skin when someone tapped her on the shoulder.</p><p>“Good evening. I presume I am correct that you are the sister of Anthea Johnson?” The strange man lowered his voice and Christina had to strain to hear. “Otherwise known as Cecily Blaine.”</p><p>“Who the hell are you?”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is quite short, as in Chapter 11, so I'll post them both today</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” said the strange man. Before Christina could ask, he continued. “I occupy a minor position that enables me to know your identity. Christina Blaine, 28 years old, born in 1982 to Anne and Joseph Blaine. One older sister, Cecily, who went missing in 1993, now treated as a cold case.”</p><p>“Right, yeah, but what do you want with Cece?”</p><p>“She is… of interest to me.”</p><p>That unnerved Christina and she subtlely shifted further on the bench, ready to run. “Leave her alone. She got away from you.” </p><p>Mycroft looked confused for a moment, then his face lit up. “Oh! No, you misunderstand me. I am not in association with the man who took her.” Christina clearly didn’t believe him. “You have my word.” He assured her. </p><p>“So, who are you?”</p><p>“I am in association with the people who rescued her. She works for me.”</p><p>“Ohh! You’re the daddy,” she laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth at the realisation of what she’d just said. “Sorry, that’s so inappropriate of me!”</p><p>An icy cold look had crossed Mycroft’s face, but she could still see the panic behind his eyes. “What did you just say?” Despite his attempt to remain composed, he was struggling to stop his voice breaking.</p><p>“Well, my sister’s baby daddy. I suppose that sort of makes us related, you being a dad to my niece or nephew.” She stuck out a hand to shake.</p><p>His eyes were the size of saucers and his jaw was slightly slack. He remained frozen in shock, ignoring her outstretched hand and eventually pushing himself up with his umbrella. In a very clipped tone, he said “It was nice to meet you, Miss Blaine. Thank you for letting me know about Anthea’s… condition. I shall be in touch.”</p><p>And then he too disappeared into the night.</p><p>Christina was left sitting puzzled in her spot on the bench. Whatever she had just said – or done – she wasn’t sure what it was, but she was pretty certain it wasn’t good. Still, she thought despairingly, no way to contact her sister and warn her. With that in mind, she reluctantly got up herself and headed for home.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Anthea!” Mycroft bellowed. </p><p>He had roamed the dark streets of London for five hours and had eventually stopped for breath at four in the morning. He’d shed his sweaty jacket and waistcoat somewhere as he ran and had now lost them, forgetting his wallet was tucked in. He had realised, as he leant against the railings and gasped for breath, he had ended up at the edge of Hyde Park again, practically adjacent to Anthea’s apartment block. </p><p>He was now leaning against the speaker on the apartment block, repeatedly buzzing 402. He had watched her window for long enough to see the twitch of a curtain and the flicker of a light. He tried to shout again, but his voice cracked and he doubted someone standing next to him would be able to hear. Resigned, he sunk down to the pavement, glaring at his scuffed shoes until tears blurred his vision.</p><p>Inside, Anthea was wiping away her own tears and trying to bite back a whimper of pain. Of course she wanted to drag him to her by his shirttails. Who was she kidding, pretending she didn’t have feelings? But how could she face him now? Of course she would have told him one day, it would be impossible to keep it from him, but the pain she heard when he cried her name, the broken look on his face and she squinted through the curtains. She put everyone she touched in danger. Her sister. Her parents. Her child. She couldn’t do the same to Mycroft as well. She had something else, something more important in her life now, than her job. She would hand in her notice tomorrow and leave. Set up a new name, a new life, with her child. It would hurt her family, yes, but then they had each other and Peter and Elijah and Noah. Mycroft would be curious, but it would most likely be a relief for him. He had never longed for fatherhood or love anyway.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea hovered outside the side door. She had finally mustered the guts to go back to the office, but had planned to bid Harry and Isabel farewell, slip the letter through the letterbox and disappear again – forever this time. </p><p>But that previous night, when she eventually slept, she had woken up not much later in a cold sweat. Despite being warned that pregnancy would give her strange dreams, it seemed awfully realistic. She had been in the garden of a cottage overlooking the sea. A small child had come out; a girl, no more than six, swept her sleek brown hair to one side and clambered on to Anthea’s knee. Despite the sharp cheekbones and piercingly dark blue eyes, her smile lit up her face. Anthea couldn’t help but smile back, and then the little girl spoke:</p><p>“Mummy, the people at school all have daddies. Who’s my Daddy?”</p><p>Anthea barely got the chance to open her mouth before she was snapped back to reality, covered in a film of sweat with the duvet tangled at her feet.</p><p>Now, as she hovered at the door, the acuity of the dream flooded back. She couldn’t just leave him. He had given her a home, a life, a job. Someone to confide in, someone to love (even platonically), someone to… have a friend. Mycroft, above all, was her best friend. </p><p>Resolved, she took out her key. The side door she was at was hidden carefully and Anthea had had to slip down beside a concrete wall, but it led directly to Mycroft’s office, in case of emergencies. She slipped in and shut the door, locking it again without even glancing over her shoulder. She knew, anyone who Mycroft trusted enough to allow into his office, she could trust. </p><p>So, she certainly didn’t expect it when the barrel of a gun was dug into her back and a hand slid over her mouth – she was too shocked to even squeak. Her blood curdled when the assailant spoke.</p><p>“Cecily Blaine. Time for a catch up, I think.” He drawled, twisting the gun slowly so she could turn around and face him.</p><p>“How are you here? Where’s Mycroft?!”</p><p>“Your useless doorman let me in, just took a glance of my badge.” He flashed her a grin, gold tooth glinting. “And Mycroft? I assume you mean Mr Holmes? My minions sent him on a wild goose chase to… Indonesia, I believe. You remember our friend at your door a month ago?”</p><p>“Omer Bates, back from the dead then. How the hell did you find me?” Anthea hissed. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot in case she even tried to alert her colleagues.</p><p>“I must say, it was difficult. You look rather different, Miss Johnson. It is Miss Johnson?” He ran a hand through her hair and she suppressed a shudder as he inhaled deeply. “Your sister, however, was kind enough to lead me to you without even realising.”</p><p>“Christina. Is she safe?”</p><p>“I have no interest in her, don’t fret Cecily.” </p><p>“You can’t make me your slave again.”</p><p>“No, no, of course not. That would be boring. I have people who willingly volunteered for that now, lovely bunch. Small world actually, one of them – Jim Moriarty I think his name is – has a special interest in someone called Holmes.”</p><p>“Why are you here then?”</p><p>“Oh, I just want to kill you.”</p><p>The sound of Anthea’s scream was muted by the firing of the gun.</p><p>Meanwhile, Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for someone to come collect him from his car. He had received an extremely brief text that he was needed in Indonesia immediately. He refused the offer of a lift, taking the opportunity to have some time to himself. He was still in a state – shirt ripped and damp, shoes scuffed, flyaway hair. He could change in Indonesia. He still needed to speak to Anthea, but it wasn’t like she wouldn’t still be there when he got back. He checked his watch again – he had been waiting 10 minutes. On an urgent call like this, he needed to be as speedy as possible and set off at a brisk pace for the airport reception.</p><p>“Afternoon, sir,” the woman at the desk didn’t even glance up from her computer.</p><p>“Yes, afternoon,” he glanced around and lowered his voice, tapping the desk to get her attention. “I’m needed on a private flight to Indonesia asap. My identity number is 50267.”</p><p>“Let me check that for you, sir,” she droned, not sounding particularly interested. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. No private flights to Indonesia. The soonest is on an economy class plane only, in two weeks time. Anything else I can help you with?”</p><p>But Mycroft had stepped back, heart racing and eyes full of panic. Never, in fourteen years, had there been a mistake, let alone this big. Scrolling back through the burner phone frantically, a cold sense of dread filled him. He hadn’t even noticed that whoever called him had an unknown number. He had 20 burner phones (and his own personal mobile), all of which had government software to prevent normal numbers being withheld. That was some fearsome technology being used against him. But why?</p><p>-<br/>
-<br/>
-</p><p>Mycroft burst into the building to find chaos. Elizabeth was watching Isabel anxiously, who was nearly hyperventilating on the floor. Harry was elbowing his office door, clearly trying to break into it – which would never work with 1 foot of steel and leather between them.</p><p>“Elizabeth? What’s happened?”</p><p>“Oh god, Mycroft, thank heavens you’re finally here. It’s Omar. We think he left the security cameras on deliberately.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” he choked out.</p><p>“He got into your office when nobody knew and pushed this note under your door, but we think he’s gone now.”</p><p>He crumpled up the note without looking and shoved it into a pocket. “How did you find out then?”</p><p>“There was a gunshot. Mycroft, he has Anthea. He set the gun off so we’d run down here and he dragged her away. She looked unhurt but…”</p><p>“Don’t finish that sentence. You’re certain it was Anthea?”</p><p>“Yes, Harry saw her go in this morning. We didn’t want to intrude, after last night.”</p><p>“I’ll go.”</p><p>Elizabeth only had a chance to nod before Mycroft sprinted out the door again.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“He’s dead, you know,” Omer announced in the same tone someone might say they were out of milk. </p><p>Anthea didn’t have the energy to reply, putting all her effort into staying upright. He had led her down a series of dark alleys and they now stood at the top of a set of steps leading into the Thames. Although to passers-by it would appear like he had an arm around her, his sleeve cloaked a gun pressed to her side, already cocked.</p><p>“Why?” she managed to croak out.</p><p>“Mr Holmes is apparently an important man. Don’t want him getting in the way of our plans. The little set up was planned so he would get on the private plane to go to Indonesia, or so he thought, and there my little crew would be waiting to assassinate him.”</p><p>“ANTHEA!” came a shout. A very familiar shout. Summing up her remaining scraps of energy, she brought a sharp knee up, right between Omer’s legs. He dropped the gun, leaning forward with a grimace and she took the opportunity to scream at the top of her lungs.<br/>“MYCROFT!” before she slumped against the railings. Omer recovered too quickly, smiling painfully at a concerned stranger who hurried past. The hurried footsteps coming into earshot spurred him on and he grabbed her by her jacket, tugging her to him to whisper.</p><p>“Goodbye, Cecily Blaine.”</p><p>She tried to scream as she shoved, but barely managed a whimper as she slipped down the steps towards the murky water. She hit her head on the second to last step, tasting blood just seconds before everything going black.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft arrived just in time to see Omer run off. He dashed to the railings, peering over in horror as the water settled.</p><p>“Somebody get him – anybody!” he shouted, ripping his shirt off and hurrying down the steps to find her. He vaguely registered a flash of a familiar trench coat and a shout of his name before he spotted a few bubbles rise to the surface and dove in to the Thames. </p><p>Despite being the height of summer, his body tensed with shock as he submerged into the freezing, dirty water. His lungs were already burning from lack of oxygen – he had always hated swimming, even as a child. His arms reached out blindly, and finding nothing, he forced his eyes open, trying to ignore the stinging pain. With newfound strength, he propelled himself towards where he had spotted the disturbance of water, where he spotted her. Clearly unconscious, she was sinking slowly, weighted down by her clothes. Field work – when necessary – hadn’t failed him and he reached her quickly, shaking her shoulders. He’d never be able to wake her, or feel a pulse whilst underwater. Trying to convey a silent apology, he grabbed a handful of her blouse and swam towards the surface dragging her behind. </p><p>He finally emerged after what felt like hours on the rocky bank of the Thames, spluttering the water out his lungs and trying to lie Anthea out as comfortably as possible. </p><p>“Mycroft!” someone shouted from afar. He turned to see Omer bearing in on them, a deranged grin plastered on and a gun ready to fire. And then he fell – crumpling like paper. Sherlock stood further away on the bank, trembling, knuckles white on the gun as blood blossomed from the assassin. </p><p>“Oh, Sherlock. What have you done now?” Mycroft whispered. Sherlock, pale as a sheet, nodded briefly, threw the gun to the water and hurried over. </p><p>“I couldn’t just let him kill you.” He pressed a hand to Anthea’s neck. “She’s got a pulse. Weak, but steady.” He stared at Mycroft’s hand, cradling Anthea’s head – that was still bleeding. “We need an ambulance. Now.”</p><p>When the paramedics arrived, Sherlock chose to tactfully ignore his brother’s hand resting lightly on Anthea’s stomach.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing she noticed when she woke was her arm draped protectively over her abdomen. The second, was her surroundings. A typical ICU room, curtains drawn around her. Propped up on so many pillows she had slept in more of a sitting position, one wrist in a hastily wrapped bandage and the other hanging from an IV. A dull ache radiated from both her chest and head, sharpening as she leant over to hit the call button.</p><p>A nurse hurried in within seconds. “Ah, Miss Johnson, glad to see you’re awake.”</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“Well, it’s a bit vague I’m afraid. Apparently you fell into the river and you must have hit your head. You sustained some substantial bleeding and had a lot of water in your lungs.”</p><p>“Is the baby…”</p><p>“Ah, yes, the man who called the ambulance did mention you were pregnant, so we took some scans. Your baby is absolutely fine. 7 weeks apparently, congratulations.”</p><p>“The man who brought me in?”</p><p>“Yes, big trench coat, absolutely soaking wet, curly hair. Sherlock I think he said his name was.”</p><p>“The detective?”</p><p>“The pirate.” The curtain was pulled aside again and Sherlock stepped in, smirking. “Good to see you again Anthea.”</p><p>“Sir, you can’t be in here!”</p><p>“It’s fine. I know the doctor. Now go and do something, she’s fine, yes?”</p><p>The nurse nodded to his question and scurried off.</p><p>“They said you brought me in? But it was Mycroft who - ”</p><p>“Mycroft jumped in after you, yes. I was the one who called the ambulance. They wanted to look Mycroft over too, he was in the water for a while, but he’s never liked hospitals.”</p><p>“I didn’t fall.” Anthea stated.</p><p>“No. Omer panicked when Mycroft appeared. He pushed you, you hit your head on the way down, I went after Omer and Mycroft went after you.”</p><p>“It’s not safe!” She panicked, pushing herself up.</p><p>He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and lowered his voice. “It’s dealt with. When Mycroft got you on to the bank, Omer reappeared. I had no choice but to shoot. He’s dead.”</p><p>Anthea gasped, eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and she blinked them away quickly. “Sorry, happy tears.” Something else dawned on her. “Why were you there in the first place? Either of you.”</p><p>“My elder brother has always been rubbish at hiding his emotions. He’d do anything to save you, Anthea. He realised Indonesia was a set up, got back to the office, where Lady Smallwood told him Omer had taken you and he charged out. I was on my way to offer assistance anyway, so I followed.”</p><p>“And now you’re here.”</p><p>“He asked me to come. He’s sorted any situations in which I may find myself in trouble for the death of Omer Bates.”</p><p>“Past tense, ‘sorted’, he couldn’t come himself?”</p><p> “I was happy to do so. He wants to know that the baby is okay.”</p><p>She crossed her arms and sniffed, but didn’t answer.</p><p>“Anthea. You know he can easily find out for himself, but he’d rather know from you.”</p><p>“The baby is fine. That’s all he needs to know. Anything else?”</p><p>“Yes. When you’re up to it, he wants you to meet him at the Diogenes. And he says not to avoid him this time.”</p><p>“I don’t like hospitals either.” She complained. “They said I’m okay now, so I’ll discharge myself when they give me my painkillers.”</p><p>Sherlock coughed to hide a grin and she glared suspiciously until he bit his lip and spoke. “You and Mycroft are more similar than you think. Good luck raising that child.”</p><p>Anthea couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe with Sherlock there as the fun uncle, raising Mycroft’s baby wouldn’t be so hard.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea limped on to the road outside her apartment and raised her arm for a taxi. With Sherlock’s help, she had got up and argued with the doctors until they agreed to let her go home. Although she insisted she was more than able to take the bus or get her own cab, Sherlock refused to listen and ushered her into his own cab, following her to her front door. Even then, he seemed reluctant to leave. Rather than being embarrassed at the way he spoke to the doctor or annoyed at how he wittered about his latest case, she was really getting quite fond of the younger Holmes. </p><p>The hospital had been forced to throw away the sodden clothes she was wearing when she was brought in and one of the nice nurses had rummaged through lost property to find her something to wear. Although it was a sweet gesture, the baggy shirt and slacks certainly weren’t suitable to wear to the Diogenes. All she could manage to struggle into was a simple sleeveless white dress that sat on her knees and to brush her hair out. As she turned to go, she checked herself in the mirror and paused, hands sliding down to her stomach. It was barely noticeable – could be mistaken for eating too much breakfast – but there was the tiniest bump visible. </p><p>-<br/>-<br/>-</p><p>Anthea was certainly used to being stared at when she went into the Diogenes, after all, she was the only woman present. However, she felt much more self-conscious now with a limp, a bandaged wrist and a dressing strapped to her forehead. Trying not to feel like a shrinking violet under the eyes trained on her, she didn’t bother to knock before walking into the room where she knew Mycroft would be waiting. </p><p>“Ah, Anthea, good to see you up and about,” she was taken aback at how he spoke to her in the manner he might speak to a stranger.</p><p>“Um, thanks,”</p><p>He gestured to the seat and she sat, anxiously wringing her hands. </p><p>“So, Omer came back for you. Stupid of him, really.”</p><p>“Yeah, he did. But Sherlock told me that he sorted it out.”</p><p>“Hm.” He picked up his tumbler and rolled the fiery liquid around his mouth. She hadn’t noticed it previously and wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of scotch. He clearly saw. “Is this alright?” he said with a slight slur to his voice. A brief glance at the decanter on the table confirmed her suspicion that it was already half empty. She bit her lip and he carried on.</p><p>“I know how pregnancy can make you feel sick. Suppose it explains that one day in the office.”</p><p>“I couldn’t – I didn’t know how – ”</p><p>He jumped up from the armchair, pacing angrily. “No. No, it’s not that. You didn’t think to tell me. Two months of lies, Anthea!” He shouted, making her jump. “And then?! And then when I found out, you hid from me! Were you just going to abort it and never tell me, pretend like it didn’t happen?”</p><p>She shook her head.</p><p>He paused for a moment, then, quieter. “No, of course you weren’t. I found this earlier when I went back to the office.” He reached into his jacket and threw an envelope at her. She didn’t need to look at it to know it was in her own handwriting. “You must have dropped it in my office, when Omer grabbed you. You were just planning to leave, not even give me the chance to have a say in the life of our child? Had it been up to you, I wouldn’t have even got the chance to know there was a child!” </p><p>“You don’t want to be a father!” Anthea leapt up, her own temper flaring. “You don’t even want me, not for more than to run and fetch your coffee and send your fucking emails!”</p><p>“What gives you the right to say that?!”</p><p>“You said you were sorry as soon as we – as soon as we were done!”</p><p>“I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good friendship! And I’m sorry about - ”</p><p>“No! I am the mother of this child. This is my body, you don’t get to scold me for not telling you! This isn’t some reward just for saving my life.”</p><p>“No, I never thought it was. You know I wouldn’t just risk my own life like that for just anybody. I thought you were dead. At first, when Omer dragged you out my office, I thought for sure he’d killed you straight away. And then, when I heard you shout for me I was so relieved, until I saw you fall into the water.”</p><p>Her eyes brimmed with tears threatening to spill over. He was angry because he had nearly lost her – nearly lost them both. He had deserved to know. Maybe not straight away, but dragging it out for a month and planning to run without an explanation was cruel of her – although she did share the blame with him for being such an ice man. He startled her out of his thoughts as the pad of his thumb gently wiped her eye and she had to crane her neck to look up at him, he was so close. She could feel his hot breath on her forehead, his familiar smell of tobacco not so bad anymore. She reached one hand up and, careful not to touch any visible skin, ran a hand down from his crisp shirt collar to his jacket lapels. She heard his breath hitch and, barely registering even doing it, she tugged his lapels until his head crashed down, lips meeting hers.</p><p>She feared for a moment he would shove her away or storm out, but after a moment of shock, one hand reached round to cradle her head and one wrapped around her lower back, bringing her closer to him. His tongue grazed her lips, she opened her mouth a fraction and groaned quietly into his mouth – and then he backed away, hands practically knotting behind him.</p><p>“We can’t do this.”</p><p>“Yeah, no, that’s fine. I took it too far, hormones are hellish.”</p><p>He looked at her sadly. “No. I don’t mean that. I mean this.”</p><p>Her heart hammered. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“This, us being around each other, it puts me at risk, it puts you at risk, and most importantly it puts both my brother and our baby at risk. Had it not been for the tension between us, you never would have run off from the manor, you never would have found Christina, Omer would never have found you, you wouldn’t nearly have died whilst pregnant. Sherlock was too close to being locked up.”</p><p>“So, what do we do?”</p><p>“I’ll be there for the baby, but you and I can’t be involved anymore. You’ll be safe now Omer’s dead. Obviously, whilst you are still pregnant, the only way for me to be there for the baby is to be around you.”</p><p>“You will stay away from me,” she said, fury lacing her voice. “I am so much more than just a vessel. I won’t stop you being around the child, I legally cannot, but I can get through this pregnancy on my own.” She raised a hand to smack him and he gritted his teeth, but she let her hand fall back to her pocket, remembering something. She threw it to the floor, and Mycroft was almost too focused on the sonograph fluttering to the floor to hear the door slam.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea ran a hand through her hair, trying not to show how distraught she really was until she reached the safety and solace of her apartment. She had lost her best friend and her job – the best two things in her life – at the same time. And now she was pretty much going to be a single mother. Despite his promise to be there for the baby, she already knew it wouldn’t be that easy. With his career, he only managed to see his family once every few months, and who knew how he would cope without a secretary. A baby was even more complicated. She couldn’t imagine him strapping up a car seat, changing a diaper, warming a bottle. Then again, she couldn’t exactly imagine herself doing it either.</p><p>And now, with Omer gone, she had her family to consider. Omer couldn’t hurt them from beyond the grave – or rather, from beyond the river, where one of the office staff had been ordered to secretly scatter his ashes. Although, Anthea had to admit to herself she knew it would hurt them. She had been gone for seventeen years and they thought she was dead. Her sister, who hadn’t even been a teenager when Anthea had disappeared, was now a grown adult with a family. Her mother and father, who had been in their early forties, would now be near their sixties. But… they did deserve an explanation. She couldn’t leave them wondering for the rest of their lives, not knowing whether to grieve.</p><p>She should have got Christina’s number. She had promised to be in touch, but she didn’t know an email, a number, an address, anything. There was someone who would know, though. Sighing, she took out her phone and opened Mycroft’s contact, typing a very brief, blunt message:</p><p>CAN YOU PLEASE FIND THE TELEPHONE NUMBER OF CHRISTINA, ANNE AND JOSEPH BLAINE AND SEND IT TO ME.</p><p>She got an answer within a few seconds.</p><p>YOUR SISTER AND PARENTS? ARE YOU SURE IT’S A GOOD IDEA?</p><p>YES. WITH OMER OUT THE WAY THEY DESERVE TO KNOW I’M ALIVE AND WELL. IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, ANYWAY, YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT TO BE ‘INVOLVED’ WITH ME.</p><p>FINE. GIVE ME A FEW MINUTES.</p><p>True to his word, within a few minutes she got a text back with two numbers, nothing else. She recognised the telephone code; it was nearly identical to Isabel’s flat. A quick google search found her the address. It was a large detached house in a nice part of Ealing, leafy green suburbs and neighbours each side. She wondered what it would have been like to grow up there. She had always vaguely known they were in West London – Elizabeth had told her and offered to give her the address so she could watch from afar, but she hadn’t taken the offer, not believing she could cope. In fact, Elizabeth had given her a full briefing. They had stayed in their house in Hampshire that she had grown up in whilst she was with Omer. The day after Anthea was rescued, an agent was sent to help pack and tell them they had a day to move. Her sister had stayed with them in Ealing for four years and left at 18 (Anthea now knew why - to marry Peter).</p><p>Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she dialled the number with trembling hands.</p><p>“Christina?”</p><p>“Oh god, Cece!”</p><p>“I said I’d be back in contact. Look, are you busy now?”</p><p>“No, I’m alone.”</p><p>“Great. Can you go to mum and dad’s house? I’ll meet you there. Just don’t tell them I’m coming. Let them find out from me.”</p><p>“Okay. I’ll see you there. You know where to go?”</p><p>“Yep.” And Anthea hung up the call.</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea didn’t know why she was so nervous. They were her family, for crying out loud. But then, they’d missed her growing up. Last time she saw them, she was wearing school uniform nearly every day, had messy ginger hair and was so baby faced. She shrugged on a white lace blouse and a pair of jeans. She stepped into a pair of tan kitten heels, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, slipped on a cap and went to leave with her small tan purse. Then, on a second thought, grabbed a cardigan that had sat on her coat rack for years. It was something else Elizabeth had managed to find from her mothers wardrobe and when Anthea really focused, she thought she could still smell her mothers familiar scent of washing powder and lilies. </p><p>Just walking up her parent’s road eased her nerves somewhat as she passed friendly neighbours. Someone stepped out their house with a pram, pausing from cooing at the baby to smile at her. An old man pruning his garden in the sunshine stopped to wave. A group of three young children were playing in the road with a skateboard and waited to let her pass, shouting hello. </p><p>Two cars were parked on the drive and Anthea couldn’t help but smile. The bright orange Citroen clearly belonged to Christina, with the ratty “baby on board” sticker and the fluffy steering wheel. And it looked like her dad had finally got his dream of buying a Mustang. A window was open, presumably on the side of the house, as Anthea approached the door and she could hear chatter floating through. Taking one deep breath, she raised her hand and swung the gold door knocker.</p><p>“I’ll get it!” she heard Christina shout. That was something else she had texted – she didn’t want to terrify her parents and wanted to have them at least sitting down when they saw her.</p><p>Christina beckoned her in and Anthea hopped through the doorway anxiously. “It’s nice,” she mouthed. And it was. The rich hardwood floors and carpeted stairway was obviously new, but she still remembered the rug, vase and mahogany side table. </p><p>“Who is it, Chrissy?” called their mother from, presumably, the sitting room. Anthea’s breath hitched at hearing the voice she hadn’t heard for seventeen years and she looked helplessly at her sister, who laid a reassuring hand on her arm and beckoned her to follow. </p><p>Christina let Anthea pause at the door and continued to stroll in casually. “Someone to see you I think,”</p><p>That was Anthea’s cue. Clinging to the door handle to keep steady, she walked in. </p><p>Her mother burst into tears. In the second it took her to blink, her father had shot across the room and wrapped her tight in his arms. It took her a moment to realise her own tears were dampening his shoulder.</p><p>“You’re really here?” her mother asked. Anthea peeled herself away from her dad, leading him to the sofa when he wouldn’t let go of her arm and nodding. </p><p>“But… how?”</p><p>And so Anthea told them everything. How she had begged Omer to let her go home. How that, now he was dead, she could finally see them without putting them in danger. They shed tears with her and held her close.</p><p>When she was finally finished, Christina piped up. “You’re forgetting something, Cece.”</p><p>Anthea bit her lip and Christina turned to their parents. “She’s got a real fancy job and she lives right in the middle of London.”</p><p>“I don’t have the fancy job anymore, Chrissy.”</p><p>“But I met your boss – oh god, it’s not my fault is it? I told him something I probably shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“No, don’t worry,” Anthea reassured her at the same time that her mum said “What did you say Chrissy?”</p><p>Anthea sighed – she wouldn’t be able to hide it for much longer. “I’m pregnant.”</p><p>“Pregnant?!” her mum squealed and her dad welled up again. “My baby’s having a baby?”</p><p>“Yeah, 7 weeks. I am 33, you know,” she laughed. Her shadow crossed her mum’s face and Anthea felt bad for reminding her that she had missed out on so much.</p><p>“Is there a Mr Johnson or is that a fake name too?”</p><p>“No, that’s made up, just like the name Anthea. I’m not married. I’m not actually with anyone.”</p><p>“Oh, Cece, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s okay. The dad is gonna be there, just not right next to me,” to her horror, she felt her eyes sting. Thankfully, her mum knew when to drop it.</p><p>Anthea stayed for hours, just talking and catching up on seventeen years. She took great delight in finding out the family dog that bounded in was the puppy of Anthea’s beloved old dog, Cookie. It was already dusk by the time she needed to go, gratefully turning down a lift from Christina who had to rush off. Just before she left, her mum pulled her gently to one side.</p><p>“Cecily, listen to me. I know you’re a grown woman now and I’m so proud of you. But I’m your mum, it’s obvious you want something more with your baby’s dad. Don’t even try to argue. Try to fix it or you might regret it – you deserve the world after everything you’ve been through.”</p><p>Anthea wordlessly pulled her mum into a hug, agreed to the order to call them, and left.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea was exhausted by the time she got home – content, but exhausted. Her phone battery had died, so she had been forced to walk a long way out of Ealing to find a taxi. Usually, she would have panicked about not having her phone – it was a requirement for her job, but since she was now unemployed, she took the time to turn off for the first time in about fourteen years.</p><p>She plugged her phone in and fell backwards on to her bed, stretching happily. </p><p>Old habits die hard, she thought, as she unsuccessfully tried to get to sleep without checking her messages first. She shot up in bed as soon as she turned it on. 10 new messages, 6 missed calls and 2 voicemails. Lady Smallwood had tried calling and then texted when it didn’t go through – she never texted, abhorred it. Anthea opened it with trembling fingers, already terrified.</p><p>ANTHEA. EXPLOSION OUTSIDE WHITEHALL, MYCROFT NOT FOUND.</p><p>Her blood ran cold and she hurriedly scrolled through the rest of the messages. Isabel had messaged too, and Harry. 3 people were in intensive care, 7 people were already confirmed dead, two bodies unidentifiable. And Mycroft still nowhere to be found.</p><p>One voicemail was from Elizabeth. She was shouting down the phone, but Anthea could barely make out what she was saying over the background noise of ambulance sirens and screaming.</p><p> </p><p>The other voicemail was from Mycroft.</p><p>“Anthea. I was really hoping you would pick up. My own fault, I suppose.” He rasped. “There’s been an explosion. I’ve got my phone, only got a little bit of battery left, so I can’t call for help. There’s a load of rubble, I don’t know whether they’ll find me. I just wanted to ring so… in case everything goes pear shaped, tell our baby I love them.” He paused and Anthea was sure she could hear him sniffle. “And – and – you were, are the only – ”</p><p>And the phone abruptly cut off. Anthea snatched up a jacket and ran to her door. She needed to tell the people at the scene, make them move the rubble. Mycroft could not just leave her. She dashed into her hall… and face first into Mycroft.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Mycroft!” she gasped, pushing herself away with hands on his chest in shock. </p><p>He looked terrible, barely recognisable. Huge purple and black bruising was blossoming on his jaw, eyes bloodshot, dried blood under his nose, a gash on his cheek dripping on to his suit – already ripped and stained with dust beyond repair. </p><p>“You look a state,” she whispered, gently brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead. One arm apparently gave out and he lost his grip on the wall, but when she went to catch him, he shook his head firmly and stepped out of reach.</p><p>“After leaving you that voicemail, I thought it best to come and see you, to assure you I am indeed alright.”</p><p>“You don’t look alright! And never mind me, you should be in hospital.”</p><p>“Alive, then, same thing. Trust me, I’m not planning on staying, but it wasn’t fair of me to distress you like that.”</p><p>“Distress me? I was relieved, at least I knew you were alive.” She paused for a moment before reaching for his hand and gently placing it on the small swell of her belly.</p><p>His breath hitched and, beneath the grime, she couldn’t miss how his eyes softened. </p><p>“I’ve got an app.” She whispered and he glanced at her curiously, not moving his hand. “About the baby.” She clarified. “I’m 8 weeks along tomorrow. She’s got eyes now, and fingers.”</p><p>“She?” he choked out.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. Just a thought, a feeling, it’s too early to check apparently.”</p><p>“How big is… she?”</p><p>“Size of a raspberry.” She took his hand, thumb rubbing over the pad of his middle finger. “About that big. Come on, I can tell you more on the way to the hospital.”</p><p>It was like a door closing, he shut himself off again so quickly. “No. I’m perfectly capable of going on my own.”</p><p>“Mycroft, you’re a state.”</p><p>“It’ll be distressing. And it’ll take a long time. That can’t be good for a pregnant woman, especially in your first trimester. You’ll stay here, I’ll drop round at some point.”</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea had obeyed Mycroft and stayed at home. There wasn’t anything she’d be able to do at the hospital and she’d probably just get in the way. She had deliberately stayed awake to text Mycroft, but once he told her he was being given a sedative, she eventually managed to get to sleep. She tossed and turned all night, dreams full of explosions, assassins and deep water.</p><p>So, it was no surprise that felt even worse as she emptied her stomach into the toilet. She had been warned the morning sickness would get worse now anyway, and hopefully cease when she reached her twelfth or thirteenth week. She rested her forehead on the cool rim of her sink and waited for the nausea to subside.</p><p>She hadn’t deliberately dozed off again, but was startled awake by the doorbell. Pressing a tentative hand to her stomach, she managed to get up, swallowing weakly.</p><p>When she opened the door, she was glad she was already leaning against the doorframe. Despite the expensive designer shirt and corduroy trousers, Mycroft still looked terrible, more so now in the light of day. His face was covered in small half-healed scars, and his nose still looked too swollen and red. He appeared to be leaning on the umbrella for support, now, rather than convenience and Anthea struggled not to wince at the line of bruising than ran up his arm and neck.</p><p>“Anthea, hello again.”</p><p>“You look horrific.”</p><p>“Well, thank you. I thought I rather escaped unscathed, compared to some.”</p><p>“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better than last night. Is there anything you want, Mycroft?” she crossed her arms over the hoodie. Now she knew he was okay, she still couldn’t forgive him for what he had said at the Diogenes. Especially at the moment, feeling how she did.</p><p>“Like I’ve said before, you’re carrying my child. I think I should be allowed to make sure you’re… both doing alright.”</p><p>“We’re fine,” she lied, focusing on a spot over his shoulder. At least the baby was okay, and that’s he was interested in, right?</p><p>“Are you sure? You’re looking a bit… well, green, to be honest.”</p><p>“That’s nice of you. I didn’t get a very good night’s sleep, so I probably don’t look my best, no. And I’m probably green with morning sickness – read a book about it.”</p><p>“I’m familiar with the concept. Go back to bed then?”</p><p>“Wow, who would have thought!” she said, sarcasm dripping from the words. “Got too much to do today. Got to prepare, being a single mother and all that.”</p><p>“I’ve told you, you won’t be a single mother, I’ll be there for the baby. Look, why don’t you go to bed and I’ll do your list of errands?”</p><p>She didn’t like the idea of him in her apartment; cooking, cleaning, putting the shopping away, but the idea of going back to bed did sound nice. “Fine.” She stood to one side so he could squeeze through, trying not to feel his stare as she locked the door up again.</p><p>“So…” he began.</p><p>“I’m not a scrounger, by the way. I will pay you for this.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a maid, I’m the father of your - ”</p><p>“Don’t.” She interrupted. “There’s a list on the kitchen bench. Help yourself to anything. I’m gonna…” she gestured to her room. The last time he had been in her apartment, her suggestion of going to bed had caused a lot of problems. </p><p>He hung the umbrella on her coat rack and she watched for a moment before turning to bed, to confirm her suspicions that he was indeed limping slightly. </p><p>He whipped round, dropping her list of instructions, at a sudden, heavy thud from the next room.<br/>“Anthea?”</p><p>No response.</p><p>“Anthea?!”</p><p>Biting on his knuckle in consideration for a moment, he knocked before opening the bedroom door, relieved she hadn’t locked it.</p><p>“I said you were over doing it!” He sighed, more to himself than her, since clearly just taking her hoodie off had knocked it out of her and she had passed out, thankfully on the thick rug. He scooped her up effortlessly, glad she was at least wearing a bra and shorts as he put her down on the bed, drawing the cover up to her neck to protect her dignity. His hand lingered on the warm swell of her tummy, but snatched it away when she groaned softly and twitched. Mind already made up, he took his phone out and settled at the foot of the bed where he could keep on eye on her.</p><p>-<br/>-<br/>-</p><p>Anthea yawned and stretched, slowly coming back to consciousness and feeling slightly less refreshed than she should after a nap.<br/>As she stretched, she nudged something with her foot. Something that grunted and sat up suddenly. “Bloody hell, Mycroft!” She startled, snatching her foot back.</p><p>“Sorry, must have dozed off,” he apologised, propping himself up on his elbows and wincing.</p><p>“Why are you in here in the first place?” she demanded, realising she was wearing very little and pulling the sheet up to her chin.</p><p>“Ah, you don’t remember. I said you overdid it and – can I come sit up there, this is really rather uncomfortable.”</p><p>Anthea bit her cheek, deciding, then flipped a corner of the duvet down in invitation. He clambered up the mattress and mirrored her, ankles crossed, fingers drumming his thighs. She impatiently waited for him to carry on.</p><p>“Yes, you overdid it. You passed out on the rug,” He pointed for effect. “Didn’t want to leave you there, didn’t look very comfy, so I carried you to bed.”</p><p>She tried, unsuccessfully, to fight a blush. “Well. That was sweet of you, thanks. I’m feeling better now though, so…”</p><p>“So time to get you to the hospital.”</p><p>“What? No!”</p><p>“Yes. I know you don’t like it but I’ll be there the whole time.”</p><p>“That’s even worse. I’m a big girl. All that was wrong is I didn’t get a good nights sleep.”</p><p>“Neither you nor I have the medical qualifications to be sure of that. In your condition, it’s best to get it checked. Look, I googled it.” He seemed very proud of himself.</p><p>“I can go myself. You refused to let me come yesterday.”</p><p>“That was different. No, I want to see the baby. And… I care about you.” It was his turn to blush and duck his head. She remained quiet. “After all, you are the mother of my child. And I’ve known you 14 years. We’re… friends. Right?”</p><p>“Kind of an unconventional friendship. Is this your attempt of asking me for a truce?”</p><p>He gave her a watery smile and stuck out a hand. She laughed, wrapping her pinky finger around his own.</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her eyes fluttered open again and she sighed. She was really getting sick of passing out, and sick of hospitals too. At least Mycroft had been with her in the apartment when she passed out, both times. Now, he was nowhere to be seen, although at least she had the luxury of a private room this time – as opposed to on a ward. Just on cue, a nurse hurried in. Plump and middle aged, with a friendly smile, the woman reminded Anthea of her mother.</p><p>“Ah, you’ve woken up. Hello, sweetheart.”</p><p>“Um, hi. How long was I out for?”</p><p>“Well, the man who came in with you wanted you seen to right away and the doctor brought you in here about an hour ago, so not long.”</p><p>“The man who brought me in? Do you mean Mycroft?”</p><p>“He didn’t tell us his first name, sweetheart. Your husband, though.”</p><p>Anthea coughed. “My what?!”</p><p>“Yes, he carried you in and told the staff you were his wife. He wanted you checked over immediately, was going on about the baby.”</p><p>Anthea scrubbed a hand across her face. Of course he would lie to make sure the baby was okay.</p><p>“He was your husband, right?” asked the nurse worriedly. Anthea knew enough about the regulations to know how much trouble Mycroft could get into.</p><p>“Yeah, we’re married.” She lied. “Where is he now?”</p><p>“He disappeared after the scans came back okay, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the nurse raised her eyebrows sympathetically.</p><p>Of course. Anthea had told him she didn’t want him there, not for her, anyway. It had clearly hurt his feelings, but he was considerate enough not to ignore someone who was both pregnant and unconscious. At least, he thought he was being considerate.</p><p>“Can I go home then?”</p><p>“The test results are all normal, for you and the little one, but since you passed out twice today, they want to keep you in overnight I think, just to be on the safe side. Don’t worry, the food isn’t too bad.”</p><p>Anthea sighed and fell back on to the pillows. By herself, again.</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea left it another two months before going back to the office. She hadn’t seen Mycroft at all in that time; he hadn’t come to her apartment or rung or even sent a minion, whatsoever. She had thought he would at least sit on her sofa and be insufferable until she admitted he was right for taking her to hospital.</p><p>A small part of her was pleased to see that her office and desk were still untouched – he hadn’t been able to find a replacement for her. Isabel offered a box to pack the rest of her things into, but she couldn’t manage it yet. Not until she was thrown out. </p><p>At four months, there was no disguising her condition and she was happy to share it now, having passed the risky first trimester. She hadn’t had another episode since Mycroft had taken her to hospital – the last time she’d seen him – and the doctor had warned her that it was because her blood pressure was too low. He’d put her on a medication that she couldn’t pronounce, just to be on the safe side. She’d texted Mycroft to let him know, but hadn’t got an answer. She had even gone to his house, having awful visions of him writhing on the floor with lasting damage from the explosion. She hadn’t visited his house in 2 years, but she sat outside for an hour and nobody came. </p><p>“Elizabeth! Hi!” She was snapped out of her thoughts by the older lady walking straight past.</p><p>“Hello, Anthea - my apologies, I didn’t see you there. You’re glowing!”</p><p>“Thank you,” Anthea smiled, rubbing her stomach. “I’m looking for Mycroft, have you seen him?”</p><p>“Oh, did he not tell you?”</p><p>“Tell me what?”</p><p>“He hasn’t been at the office for ages now, just over a month I think it’s been. Can we go into my office to discuss it?”</p><p>Anthea followed her in, trying not to let her impatience show. “What is it, then?”</p><p>Elizabeth seemed slightly taken aback by her unusual snappiness. “Mycroft’s younger brother - ”</p><p>“Sherlock.”</p><p>“Mycroft has been pretending to interview James Moriarty, who has an infamous affiliation with Sherlock Holmes.” She paused and scrutinised Anthea for a moment. Anthea was trying to think where she had heard that name before. “Mr Moriarty is under the impression that he is being held in one of our cells for the purpose of giving information to Mycroft, when it is in fact the other way around. Mycroft is deliberately feeding false information to Moriarty about Sherlock.”</p><p>“But why?”</p><p>“We don’t know what it is, but we do know that Moriarty is planning something big, something dangerous. Mycroft will do anything to protect Sherlock. In the worst case scenario, Sherlock will fake his death, with Mycroft’s assistance, to avoid actual suicide or murder.”</p><p>“Is Mycroft safe?!” She asked, leaping up from her chair.</p><p>“Perfectly safe. Mycroft is not alone with Moriarty and they are only in the same room when Moriarty is handcuffed. Although he has been fairly docile so far, we have men on hand, were he try anything. That’s how he works.”</p><p>“Why do you know all this? Shouldn’t it be top secret?”</p><p>“Mycroft trusts me enough to disclose it, in case something were to happen to him.”</p><p>“Are you fucking him?” Anthea found herself saying. It was no secret to the office that things had been tense between Lord and Lady Smallwood. Elizabeth clearly knew of the rumours, since she didn’t seem at all bothered by Anthea’s question. Instead, she cleared her throat (as close as she came to showing surprise) and focused on her manicure. Before Anthea could begin to apologise, she said, “no, Miss Johnson. I am not.” She looked up and met Anthea’s gaze with a very uncharacteristic smile and wink. “Now, you on the other hand…”</p><p>Anthea wasn’t so good at hiding her surprise and instantly felt herself go as red as a tomato, stuttering. </p><p>“I understand why you would want to see the father of your child and I think we both know Mycroft well enough that he will be focusing on one thing and one thing only at the moment, whether it be deliberate that he is ignoring you or not. I can’t give you a definite answer but I know he has been spending most of his time at 221B Baker Street, devising a plan with Sherlock.”</p><p>Anthea smiled gratefully and turned to leave, before Elizabeth called after her. “John Watson is not aware of their plan, I believe, so be careful. And you two take care, let us know how you are.”</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea peered up again through the sheets of rain. She could just about make out the open window in Sherlock’s flat, a silhouette in the curtain. Relieved that at least someone was in, she bashed her fist against the door. Receiving no response after a minute, she stepped back and tried to pull her sopping hair back, regretting not wearing a jacket with a hood. It was so heavy that just the 15 minute walk from the tube had soaked her thoroughly.</p><p>The torrent of rain suddenly stopped and she blinked away the raindrops to see an umbrella held above her head. Mycroft stood under it with her, so close she could feel the warmth radiating from him.</p><p>“Shouldn’t be out in your condition, the tube or the rain,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.</p><p>“Don’t really have a choice, you’ve been ignoring my calls,” She retorted, annoyed when a shiver ran through her.</p><p>He clearly noticed. “You might as well come in. It’s just my brother and Dr Watson.”</p><p>She stalked in and up the stairs before him, not bothering to check whether he was watching or following her. </p><p>“Hello, Anthea,” Sherlock said with a smile, leaning against the wall beside the door with a hand already extended to take her soaked jacket.</p><p>“Hi Sherlock, John,” she smiled back gratefully. John looking from his laptop for a moment, the tips of his ears turning pink as he remembered what he had said last time they had met. </p><p>“How’s the pregnancy coming along?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>“Pregnancy? Jeez, Anthea, I didn’t realise you were with someone, I’d have never - ” John interrupted. At a hard stare from Sherlock, he shut up, looking puzzled. His eyes flickered between Anthea, staring out the window, and Mycroft, who had now appeared and was glaring at him. “Oh! Blimey, Mycroft, I didn’t realise you even - ”</p><p>“Thank you for your comments, Dr Watson.” Mycroft spoke up. “But we wouldn’t want to distress the mother-to-be.”</p><p>Anthea snorted. “Bit rich, coming from you.”</p><p>Mycroft sighed, ignoring her and turning to his brother. “Is there somewhere that Anthea and I can speak in private?”</p><p>“My bedroom,” said Sherlock after glancing at Anthea, waving a hand dismissively down the hall.</p><p>“More secrets?” Anthea heard John say as she followed Mycroft down the hall.</p><p>Sherlock’s room was nice. Anthea had expected it to be a mess with piles of experiments everywhere. Instead, it was fairly plain, with a large double bed, a matching wardrobe and dresser, and a few framed diagrams on the wall. She pulled the duvet up and sat down, bouncing slightly and confirming to herself that it was indeed as comfy as it looked. Mycroft, meanwhile, shut the door and stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, watching her with a quirked brow.</p><p>“Did it occur to you I was ignoring you intentionally?”</p><p>“Obviously,” she snapped.</p><p>“You said, in your apartment two months ago, that I could be there for the baby but you didn’t want me there with you! So I’ll wait until he or she is born and we don’t have to be around each other.”</p><p>“I was feeling awkward and upset and ill!”</p><p>He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking very tired. “How did you even know I would be here?”</p><p>“You weren’t at your house or the office, Elizabeth said you might be here. She told me your plan, you know, with Sherlock and M - ”</p><p>Mycroft crossed the room in an instant, clapping a hand across her mouth. “Code name Lazarus. My brother doesn’t want his flatmate to know.” He whispered.</p><p>“He’s not the only Holmes keeping a secret! I couldn’t find you and I thought you’d abandoned me, and the baby! Were you ever going to tell me?!”</p><p>He opened his mouth but before he could speak, she continued. “No, bet you wouldn’t have! Had something happened to you, we’d have never known!” </p><p>“I don’t want this, Anthea!” he snarled, startling her. “Fatherhood has been forced upon me! When I say I’ll be there for the baby, I mean I’ll be there for them to meet and I’ll provide financial support. I’m never going to be the type of father who gets up for the 2am feed and pushes them on the swings!”</p><p>She shook her head, not even dignifying him with a response before storming out. She noticed John peer over his laptop worriedly and Sherlock call her name, but she sprinted down the stairs, letting the tears fall, immensely relieved there was already a taxi waiting outside.</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two months later, Anthea found herself wandering from Baker Street to Whitehall in the breezy sunshine. She was spending more time with Sherlock, now quite fond of him. She’d even admitted she would miss him, would he to disappear. She had been ignoring Mycroft’s calls and, the one time he had showed up to Baker Street, she had hidden in Sherlock’s bedroom. She had stepped out of her apartment once to catch him loitering on the street outside, and rapidly retreated before he could spot her.</p><p>She paused outside the grand white brick Edwardian building that had once housed her office. A week after Mycroft’s office, she had gone back to thank Elizabeth and pack up the rest of her desk. Even though she had left, it had still been her home-from-home for 14 years. Without the place, who knows what her life would have been like. She laid a hand on the brickwork, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” only feeling slightly silly for talking to a building.</p><p>So totally wrapped up in memories, she didn’t notice the sleek black Jaguar pull up behind her, until the tip of an umbrella tapped her on the arm. </p><p>“Anthea,” was all Mycroft said.</p><p>“Mycroft? Shouldn’t you be in there?” she gestured at the office.</p><p>“I have passed on my apologies, Elizabeth knows this is a more pressing matter.”</p><p>“What’s that then?”</p><p>“Get in the car.”</p><p>Anthea crossed her arms over her bump. “No.”</p><p>“Anthea, we need to talk. Now get in the car.”</p><p>“No! I’ve been avoiding you for a reason. I don’t need your ‘financial support,’ as you put it.”</p><p>“Get in the bloody car!” he snapped. She levelled with him, locking eyes and only then noticing the desperation behind them.</p><p>She peered inside the car before getting in. “Where’s your driver?”</p><p>“This isn’t work. It’s personal.”</p><p>She didn’t answer, but stepped inside and shifted around in the seat to get comfortable as he crossed around to the other side.</p><p>He expertly navigated the busy roads of London, not speaking or taking his eyes off the road. Eventually, she sighed, and took one hand off the wheel to rub at the back of his neck; a nervous habit. “I thought we could go to my house? To talk?” He offered.</p><p>Anthea just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.</p><p>Mycroft’s house was extraordinary. It was a detached Georgian, in a street of similarly breath-taking homes. He didn’t bother to take the car round to his garage, instead ushering her through the front door and waving a hand towards the cloakroom. On the few times that Anthea visited before, they’d gone straight through the kitchen and reception room to his study. This time, however, he paused in the vestibule, enquiring whether she would rather sit in the conservatory or drawing room. </p><p>“What’s through there?” she asked, pointing to a door on the other side of the conservatory. </p><p>“Oh, that’s the family sitting room. Rarely used, except when my mother visits. Bathroom’s through there, on the other side of the dining room, in case you need it.”</p><p>She shook her head silently and wandered to the large French windows, trying to ignore the feel of his eyes trained on her back. “I like your garden.” Beyond the patio, there was a beautifully manicured lawn and, on the other side, a glass building with a swimming pool.</p><p>“Yes, it is nice.” He agreed. “My gardener keeps it very well. “I had those hedges planted,” he pointed. “So I could sit and do my work with some privacy on a summers day.”</p><p>She sighed and sat down on one of the blue sofas. “Enough with the chit-chat, Mycroft. Why did you want to talk to me?”</p><p>He continued to gaze out the window. “I wanted to apologise. I let my emotions take advantage and lost my temper, the last time we spoke.”</p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with letting your emotions show. And at least you were honest.”</p><p>“It still wasn’t fair of me to say. This situation was definitely unexpected, by both of us. I doubt this is your dream life either, but you’re planning to get on with it and raise our child.”</p><p>He looked up in alarm at a sputtering noise from Anthea. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”</p><p>She cleared her throat. “Nothing, sorry. It’s just… you’ve always just called it ‘the baby,’ never ‘ours.’”</p><p>He stared. “Is that okay?” He asked hesitantly.</p><p>She didn’t trust her voice and just nodded, waiting for him to continue.</p><p>“This certainly wasn’t a one-handed job; it took both of us to make this happen. It’s not fair of me to expect you to do all the work while I just throw money about.”</p><p>“You’re right. This isn’t what I wanted at first, but I’m happy now. I don’t want you to feel obliged, I don’t want to make you unhappy or ruin your career or your life.”</p><p>He laughed humourlessly. “My career is my life. At least, it has been, up to now. Perhaps not a very happy life, however. Maybe this is my chance to be happy again.”</p><p>“So… what are you saying? Me and the baby are going to be part of your life too now?”</p><p>“Yes. And I was wrong, before, about not being around you. I was scared and upset about Sherlock and, most of all, I didn’t want you to get hurt.”</p><p>“It’s not like we’re together, Mycroft. I know other people manage it, but it’s more complicated for us, isn’t it?”</p><p>He hummed, moving from the window and collapsing into one of his wicker armchairs. “Why don’t you move in here then?”</p><p>She laughed in disbelief. “What?!”</p><p>“I mean it. You could live here. It would be easier, after all.”</p><p>“You’re being ridiculous.”</p><p>“No I’m not,” he leant closer to her. “There’s loads of rooms. This place has got seven bedrooms and you could be on the top floor, I never go up there except the few occasions I go into the attic. It’s just got 3 bedrooms, with dressing rooms and ensuites. There’s even a tiny kitchenette under the stairs that I had installed when Sherlock lived with me, years ago. It would be easier than constantly going back and forth between the houses.”</p><p>He paused for breath, watching her worriedly. When he received no response, he continued, ruffling his hair with one hand. “You’ll have to move out of your apartment when the baby is six months anyway; it’s only got one bedroom, you could have a nursery here. And you’d never have to worry about rent or tidying up and you said yourself how nice it - ”</p><p>It took Anthea a moment to catch up but she interrupted suddenly. “Six months?”</p><p>He looked blank for a second, then realised what she was asking “Yes. The book I read said that babies who move out of the mothers bedroom at six months have less tantrums and better sleep patterns. It’s based on solid research and - ”</p><p>“A book?”</p><p>He scratched the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “Well, yes.” She watched quietly as he went into the family room and came back with a stack of books. “I don’t know whether these are the right ones, but the woman at the bookshop said – why are you crying?” </p><p>Anthea hastily swiped at her eyes. “Sorry, hormones,” she apologised. Mycroft tentatively proffered a box of tissues. </p><p>“28 weeks today, right?” Mycroft asked. She nodded, sniffling into a tissue. At 21 weeks, Anthea had done a haul of maternity clothes and the bump was really showed off in the cute tops she’d found. </p><p>“Can I?” he inquired quietly and she nodded again, her eyes trained on his face as he splayed his hand across her belly. “She’s as big as a pineapple now.”</p><p>“She? Have you had the scan?”</p><p>“No, no, she’s been curled up for a while, just a feeling.”</p><p>“She’s got hair and eyelashes and fingernails now. She can hear, too.” He murmured, then addressed the bump. “Can you hear me, little baby?” </p><p>Anthea gasped suddenly and Mycroft looked up in concern. “It’s okay,” she whispered, taking his hand and using it to push her top up a bit. “She’s kicking, I think she can hear you.”</p><p>Anthea purposely ignored the wobble to his voice when he said, “it’s your daddy here.”</p><p>How could she deny him? One sentence, one mistake, he knew it and he wanted to make amends and he was sorry. Just because he had never expressed a desire to be a parent before didn’t mean he didn’t love the baby now. After all, she hadn’t exactly ever expressed a desire to be a mother. She still couldn’t imagine him dutifully getting up at 2am, but she could imagine him sitting on a rug with a toddler, surrounded by play bricks. She realised she must have tensed under his hand, because he was looking at her with something unrecognisable in his eyes.</p><p>“Sit up here,” she murmured, tugging him up from the floor on to the sofa next to her. “Yes.”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Yes, I’ll live here. I know things still aren’t perfect between us, but we can sort it out, slowly.”</p><p>He cocked his head a bit. “Thank you,” he said quietly. </p><p>She didn’t know what it was. The new hormones, the fact she’d missed him, the new bond they’d just made. But she gripped his shoulder, shifting slightly on the sofa and pressing her lips to his.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For anyone who's curious, this is what I imagine Mycroft's house to look like<br/>https://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-85287512.html</p><p>And this is a vague idea of what I imagine Anthea's flat to look like<br/>https://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-82257493.html</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She closed her front door and leant against it with a happy sigh, lips still tingling. Mycroft didn’t respond immediately, but when she went to pull away in embarrassment, he followed her, devouring her like his own personal drug. Eventually, she had pushed his chest so she could suck in some air and shyly tucked some hair behind her ear. Then laughed at how thoroughly ruffled he looked. </p><p>He had offered to tidy up her new bedroom at the house and come over to help pack later, so she really needed to freshen up. Having had nothing to do for the past two months, she had spent most of her time with Isabel or Sherlock and had neglected her own apartment. Chinese food had been a big craving for her and she was slightly embarrassed by her coffee table that she had ordered takeaway most nights, instead of cooking (low in fat and sugar for the baby of course). She managed to change her bed, throw some laundry in the washing machine and run the vacuum around before he knocked on the door. It was the most casual she’d ever seen him, clutching a tower of empty cardboard boxes in denim jeans, a cotton button up and leather sneakers – no tie, no jacket, no waistcoat, no chain. He staggered in with the boxes, grumbling at her not to help in her condition, and clapped his hands once he’d set them down. “Shall we?”</p><p>Anthea had expected it to take ages, but Mycroft was clearly a pro at packing. She tentatively asked how and he smiled, explaining that Sherlock had been forced to move a lot after previous landlords had gotten annoyed with his failed experiments. Anthea had only met Martha Hudson once, but she had seemed very fond of Sherlock and didn’t seem too bothered by his morbid interests. </p><p>Mycroft had forbidden her from bending over too much or picking up anything heavy, so she had been restricted to the kitchen cupboards and her wardrobe. She tried not to think that he was going through the drawers where she kept her lingerie. </p><p>Packing had given her a lot of time to think. Where were they? They’d had known each other for fourteen years, had sex, were having a baby, and he had kissed her back and walked her home yesterday. They couldn’t live together and just not address it. </p><p>Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she walked into her bedroom, failing at her attempt to not cock her head and look at his backside when he bent over. He clearly caught her looking and spun round with a smirk. “I think I’m all done in here,” there was a little dust clinging to his hair and she couldn’t help but sweep it away. “What did you want to ask?” he probed curiously. </p><p>“How did you – never mind. I was wondering…”</p><p>“You were wondering?” he encouraged when she stopped.</p><p>“I was wondering what we are. Like, what is this?” she waved a hand between them. He sighed and sat down heavily on her mattress, putting the box at his feet and patting the spot next to him.</p><p>“I will admit, we’ve got about this a bit backwards. Had sex, ran away, got pregnant, ran away again, kept fighting, and only now we’re kissing and moving in together?” the tone of his voice was humorous, but she could see the apprehension behind his eyes and it broke her heart.</p><p>“What do you want us to be, Mycroft?”</p><p>“Well. And look, let me talk, please, because this isn’t going to sound great at first. I never wanted a family but now? Now I do. Feelings are complicated and this, whatever this is, won’t be easy with a newborn. But you can’t just give up on someone when the situation isn’t ideal and life is complicated; sometimes it sends you the right person at the wrong time. Love is scary, you know.”</p><p>She paused, letting the words sink in. “Did you just say you loved me?”</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” he laughed drily, gesturing at her bump. </p><p>“Sex isn’t always about love,” She countered.</p><p>“Even before the sex. Before these last few crazy six months. I thought you knew, I thought you always knew from that first week in your office when I gave you my number. It was platonic at first, of course it was, I barely knew you, but you’re my best friend in the world.”</p><p>He didn’t bother to hide his terror now at what her answer would be and anxiously drummed his fingers against the mattress, waiting for a response. She wanted to say something equally beautiful, important, meaningful. But she could only think of one thing. </p><p>“Only took us fourteen years,” she giggled, then kissed him.</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anthea swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked at her new surroundings happily. Despite the new… thing, with Mycroft, they had both agreed that going slow was a good idea and she would still sleep in her own bedroom, to give her space. Anyway, she wasn’t feeling her sexiest at nearly 7 months pregnant. </p><p>Mycroft had laid out her bedroom beautifully. It obviously had not been used in a while - it was clearly newly dusted and the bedsheets were crispy new. The king size bed was made of upholstered off white velvet, heavenly to the touch. There was matching drapes and bedsheets, with a blush pink quilt and scatter cushions arranged on top (from her apartment). All the furniture was a rich mahogany and she had everything she could possibly need. It was incredibly roomy, even with a walk-in wardrobe, ensuite, armchair, window seat and a large TV hung opposite the bed. He’d told her that he had put some nails in and she had eagerly unpacked some of her favourite watercolour prints. He’d left her to it to arrange her photographs and jewellery on the dressing table, her pot of fountain pens on the desk, books on the shelves. Her apartment hadn’t been huge and she didn’t have a lot of stuff, but the rest of her furniture was either put in storage or snagged by Mycroft for a ‘project’ that he was being deliberately mysterious about.</p><p>He knocked briefly and stuck his head round the door, glancing round. “Very nice. You can meet my cleaner and gardener tomorrow morning, so you’re not a stranger, and - ”</p><p>“What’s this project you were on about?” she interrupted. When she had asked him about it in her apartment earlier, he had simply smiled mysteriously and tapped his nose – but she was far too impatient for games. </p><p>He stared at her silently for a moment, seemingly musing something over, then nodded and held out his hand. “Come with me,”</p><p>Despite being absolutely exhausted, she let him lead her out the room quietly and stop in front of another apparently normal door. “What’s this?” she asked, muffling a yawn. </p><p>“We won’t be long, then you can go back to bed, promise,”</p><p>“Okay, that doesn’t matter, but what is it?”</p><p>“I thought putting it in here would be the best bet; at the top of the stairs so it’s easy to reach for you and I. My bedroom is the one at the bottom of the staircase, see.”</p><p>“Mycroft…” He was rambling now. </p><p>“Sherlock helped me too, of course, I hope it’s up to your tastes.” And he swung the door open.</p><p>Anthea immediately welled up. There was a beautifully carved cot was against one wall, already fitted with a mattress and blankets. There was a tiny wardrobe, and a matching changing unit with shelves inside, crammed with nappies and creams and muslin cloths. There was a carved white rocking horse – that the baby wouldn’t be able to use for at least a year. He’d tucked a corner shelf in, already filled with stuffed toys, children’s books and picture frames. Against the other wall was a nursing chair with an ivory pouf, yellow scatter cushions and wooden boxes for toys. The ivory carpet was deliciously soft under her feet and there was a thick yellow and white rug that stretched across the middle. He’d even stuck pictures of cute woodland animals on the walls.</p><p>He’d clearly noticed her tears and shifted anxiously when she didn’t speak. “Is this okay? We can change it, anything you like, we’ve still got 2 months…”</p><p>She swiped at her eyes so she could see and enveloped him in a tight hug. “It’s perfect,”</p>
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